The Finest Thread

Chester Gurevitz was a comedian on the comedy club circuit. The only problem was, Chester wasn’t very good at what he did, and his hecklers were often funnier than he was. He was nicknamed ‘Clicky’ for the annoying habit he had of snapping his fingers as he delivered the punchlines of his not-very-funny jokes. Chester had lost count of the number of times he had been booed and jeered off the stage, and this was no longer a laughing matter. Struggling to make a living, he couldn’t afford a professional gag writer, so most of his material was of his own creation, and it was getting less humorous as time went on. Desperate to make an impression, any impression, he had even tried recalling the story of Eric Douglas, the not-so-famous brother of Michael Douglas, both sons of the legendary actor Kirk. Eric, too, tried his hand at stand-up but failed in this endeavor just as Chester was doing. In a last-ditch attempt to win over his audience, Eric reminded them of who he was, saying, “Don’t you know who I am? I am Kirk Douglas’s son!” In a parody of one of Douglas senior’s most famous roles, someone from the audience stood up and shouted, “No, I am Kirk Douglas’s son!” Another audience member then also rose, repeating the previous assertion. One by one, the whole audience stood, all claiming to be Kirk Douglas’s son! Eric never appeared on stage again. Chester wished he could have had that kind of quick-witted repartee. Sadly, this was not the case, and the struggling comedian had to face the unpalatable truth that, maybe, a life in live comedy, or any comedy, was not for him.

One day while taking stock of his life, Chester was wandering aimlessly through the park when he noticed a wooden bench. Deciding to rest his feet for a few minutes, he sat down, only vaguely aware of the man already parked there. Well, one thing, as they say, led to another, and both men told each other their stories. Chester’s was easily told. Failure at school, failure at college, failure in love, failure in occupation. So altogether, not a total success in life. His newfound friend surprised him by revealing that he, too, was a comedian on the circuit. Chester regarded the man in a whole new light, wondering why he had never heard of him. The man was considerably older and far more successful than Chester, and now only worked when the mood took him, maybe three or four months out of the year. Always happy to help a fellow aspiring comic, the man invited Chester to his show. Maybe he could pick up some tips about timing or delivery or how to ‘work’ an audience. It was make-or-break time. He could decline the older man’s generous offer and go to work in one of his father’s haberdashery stores. The money would be adequate, but the work would be tedious beyond endurance. Still, at least he would have a regular paycheck coming in. It was very tempting. He had been indulged long enough, his father had warned him. If he didn’t settle down and stop all this comedy mishigas, he would find himself out on the street. Who did he think his parents were – the Rothschilds? No. Chester shook his head determinedly. He would give it one last shot. He would take this man’s kind offer and see the show. What harm could it do? Worst case scenario, his old man’s haberdashery store job would still be there. He hoped.

Two nights later, Chester was sitting with the crowd, awaiting the appearance of his benefactor, whose stage name was Funny Yushude Saydat. With a moniker like that, Chester couldn’t understand why he had never come across this old man before. The accomplished comedian went into his routine, and it wasn’t long before the audience was howling with laughter. He knew all the tricks, quickly spotting the more impressionable members and playing to them audaciously. Pointing to specific men and women, he made them believe he was doing his act just for them. And they lapped it up. He cajoled them, he cossetted them, he caressed them, he even insulted them, and that was when they laughed the most and the loudest. And he did it all without clicking his fingers once. Chester was enthralled, not least because the comedian had made it all look so, well, so Goddamn easy. It didn’t even look as if he was trying. It all came out so naturally as if he was born to play the part. And his material; Chester had never heard anything like it. It was so funny. Unsophisticated, crude, sexually and racially questionable, but so bloody good.

Sitting beside him was a young girl who also seemed to be enjoying the show. She, too, couldn’t stop giggling, sometimes with embarrassment at Saydat’s politically incorrect material. Her eyes, like his and most of those sitting around him, were teary with laughter. Suddenly, she lunged forward in a fit of uncontrollable coughing. She spluttered, grasping at her throat. Even in the throes of his own demented amusement, Chester panicked when he saw her in such obvious distress. Instinctively, he hammered her back with the flat of his hand, his concern for her evident, albeit in his heightened state of hilarity. No one else seemed to have noticed her near convulsion, as they were all enjoying themselves too much. Her coughing bout eventually subsided, but without either of them noticing, she had grabbed his hand tightly Romances may have started in even more unlikely circumstances, but Chester was hard-pushed at that moment to think of one.

As the days and weeks went on, Chester found himself falling more and more in love with this girl. Her name was Hilary Feinstein, and the love-struck young man quipped some months later he wished he could give her a ‘fine stone,’ by which he meant, of course, a diamond. He now had something worth aiming for, striving for. He did not want to lose this lovely girl; neither did he want to give up his ambition to become a big-time comedian. He was sure Funny wouldn’t mind if he ‘cribbed’ a couple of the old man’s jokes, just to get the punters warmed up. Not only did he use the older comedian’s gags, but he also remembered how Funny had delivered the lines. Incredibly, it worked. They weren’t exactly roaring with laughter, but he did notice a few guffaws, and hardly anyone was trying to shout him down. Emboldened with even this limited success, Chester forged on. It wasn’t the greatest achievement in the history of live comedy, but it was far from the disaster of his usual performances. He was getting there, he thought. He was finally getting there.

On his next gig, Chester decided to use some more of Funny’s material. Just a little more; after all, if he used all of his mentor’s work, he would no longer be performing as himself. He would just be Funny in a younger body. Like the last time, his audience laughed at his, well, at Funny’s material, not so much at Chester’s contribution. However, even still, it was better than before. Hilary was pleased for him when he told her how his routines had gone, omitting his plagiarizing of Funny’s work. She was now more nervous about going back to any comedy venues since the last time when she had almost choked to death. She had not accompanied her boyfriend to his shows, preferring instead to amuse herself at home. He respected her decision not to come to his performances and understood her reasons for not doing so. He could only hope and pray, however, that she might make an exception for his next gig. The television cameras were going to be there. It was his one chance. If he got this right, it could mean the big time. Guest spots on chat shows, higher billing at comedy club venues, hell, maybe even his own TV show. Wouldn’t that be something?

Despite his pleading, Hilary stood adamant that she would not come with him but promised she would watch him on TV. Someone else who tuned into the broadcast was Funny. Funny wasn’t laughing for long, however, when he saw his protégé. Chester hadn’t just used a few of Funny’s gags; he had stolen his whole act. The old comedian wasn’t just angry; he was apoplectic. How dare this little nobody, this pissant good-for-nothing piece of garbage, take his entire schtick? Even that wouldn’t have been so bad, but his execution was awful, worse than awful; it was drek. That ungrateful swine had just taken his life’s work and pissed it against the wall, on television, yet. This was too much. That little bastard would pay a heavy price for what he did; he, Funny Fucking Yushude Fucking Saydat, would see to it. He would make sure that cocksucking little prick never worked again. If he did, it would be in the fucking comedy gulags of Outer Mongolia. He would…oh, shit…his doctor had warned him not to get too excited; his blood pressure was high enough as it was. He sensed the blood rising to his head; then, he felt more pain than he had ever felt in his life. It was like being hugged by a six-hundred-pound grizzly bear. He couldn’t breathe, he felt his face turning puce, and he knew. As he was tumbling to the floor in his living room apartment, he knew he would never be able to get that asswipe…it was…too…late…

But it wasn’t too late for Chester. Despite Lucky’s damning critique of his performance, everyone else loved him. The big time was finally beckoning, but Chester should have looked more closely at the finger on that hand. It was long, and, oh, so boney…

For the next few months, Chester couldn’t put a foot wrong. The television appearances, the higher billing in the comedy venues, the adulation from those who had previously ridiculed him. His transformation from bottom-feeder loser to the uncrowned king of comedy was nothing short of miraculous. And he loved it. The very thought of going to work in Pa’s haberdashers was now a thing of the distant past. He was earning more money from one TV appearance than he had made in his entire stand-up career. As his performing star was rising, so his romantic star seemed to be waning. He was sure Hilary would understand. She had been with him since his pathetic days of scrimping for pennies and dimes. Surely she would appreciate that he had to seize the moment. But she had become different, too. Ever since his appearance on the show that had changed his life, it was as if she had known that their time together was coming to an end. She had become more distant and melancholy as the days and weeks went by. They still saw each other, but the romance, the ‘spark,’ had gone from between them. Chester thought she might even be seeing someone else. Well, good luck to her. He didn’t need her anymore. He had what he wanted now. With his newfound fame and fortune, he would find another girl easily, one who didn’t choke every time she laughed.

It was on an appearance of a late-night chat-come-entertainment television show that Chester first noticed something not quite right, something unusual. He hadn’t been feeling well that day but not ill enough to consider canceling his performance. Still and all, he wasn’t his usual ebullient self, and he knew he was a bit weak, that he hadn’t given his best. The strange thing was that the studio audience didn’t seem to notice. They still clapped and applauded as if he had given his greatest show yet, and the cries for ‘more’ seemed louder than ever. Not only that, but even the TV ratings were superb. He reckoned the people were just being kind. They must have noticed he was having an ‘off-day,’ but he would bounce back better than ever. That was it. Surely.

His next gig was a couple of weeks later when he was headlining a comedy club venue. The day before his appearance, he had received a letter from the IRS demanding a great deal of his earnings in unpaid taxes. He had an accountant to handle this kind of shit. What was that bastard doing for his money? Sitting with his finger stuck up his ass? Well, if he was, Chester hoped the incompetent clown broke it, his finger, that is. His tax debt was still on his mind when he went out in front of the crowd. They stamped their feet and shouted his name almost to deafening point. It took a few minutes to silence them sufficiently before he could begin. But it was no use. The tax bill was enormous, and he wondered how the hell he was going to pay it. Even with his new wealth, it would drain him financially, and he had made commitments. He had discovered horseracing, and he was proving as useless at betting on gee-gees as he used to be as a professional comedian. He owed people money. These people were the nicest, kindest, sweetest folks in all the world as long as you paid them back in time with a hefty interest. When that didn’t happen, well, these folks weren’t so kind anymore; in fact, they could get downright nasty – broken fingers, toes, and kneecaps nasty. As well as his tax worries, it was the thought of what they would do to him that was preying on his mind when he faced the auditorium. It was no use. He couldn’t concentrate, especially when he noticed one of those folks standing at the back. Standing and smirking. What did he know? How could he be aware of the tax demand? It had only arrived yesterday. His creditor was looking at him with a vulpine grin. Oh, shit, this wasn’t going to be good. Still, the show had to go on. These motherfuckers had paid good money to see him, money he now desperately needed. He went into his act, but it was no use. His heart and his mind just weren’t on it. He tanked. He knew it, and they sure as hell must have known it. He was expecting a déjà vu scenario, remembering how it used to be. But wait a minute. Hold the fort. They were laughing, no, not just laughing, they were on their feet, applauding as he had never heard before. They loved him, begging him not to leave the stage. Even the wolf-like geezer at the back was crying with happy tears. What the fuck was happening here? They should have been throwing rotten tomatoes at him, not lauding him like the fucking Second Coming. Something really bizarre was going on; he just wished he knew what it was.

Even more weird was the event that happened a few weeks later. He was opening the new branch of a major supermarket chain. It was a big event for the small mid-west town, and almost the whole population turned out to see Chester go into his routine. At least, that’s what was supposed to happen. Except that an hour before he was due to go on, Chester lost his voice. He had been feeling a sore throat the night before but assumed it would be gone by the morning. Unfortunately, not only had the irritation not abated, but now, sixty minutes before he was due to perform, his larynx had seized up completely. The crowd would go nuts. He would be lucky to get away without being lynched. OK, so this time nobody paid to see him, except the supermarket honchos, who would now probably hold back his fee. He took the mic, and in an almost non-existent voice, began to apologize for his condition, promising to return and do a free show for the whole town once his voice had gotten back to normal. Despite being able to be heard only by those at the very front with highly acute hearing, they all began to go into paroxysms of laughter. He thought they would calm down when they realized he wasn’t saying anything. But, no, the laughter continued and not only went on but became louder and more raucous and insistent. They were applauding as if they were actually listening to his act. Even with his mouth firmly closed, they still carried on showing appreciation for his non-performance. Finally, he left the makeshift platform to thunderous applause. As he climbed off the stage, he nipped himself to wake up from this incredible dream. Except, this was no dream. It was for real. Everything was for real.

His next booking was another live show. He tried an experiment. After the initial expression of welcome had died down, Chester stood silent on the stage. His voice had returned and was as good as ever. He could have spoken but chose not to. Without uttering a single word, the crowd went wild. He had never seen anything like it. Everyone was on their feet, shouting and screaming for him to continue. Continue what? He had stood mute and immobile in front of these people for over an hour, but yet they still cheered as if they had all won the lottery. He was getting rave reviews for his non-performance. Every agent in town wanted a piece of him. Every venue, every TV channel, radio station, they all clamored for him.

He appeared on national TV, except he didn’t, quite. He was invited, and he went, only he stayed in the green room. He didn’t front the cameras, and still, the studio audience went into orbit laughing uproariously as if he’d been telling his funny anecdotes in front of them. Not only the studio audience. Despite staring at an empty studio chair, millions and millions of people right across the country jammed the station’s phone lines and brought down its website begging for Chester to be allowed to go on and on and on. Chester ran screaming out of the television studio into the night air. Flagging down a taxi cab, he begged the driver to take him to his hotel. The cabbie couldn’t believe who his fare was. Chester Gurevitz, the Chester Gurevitz. Wow. Wait ‘til he told his missus and kids. Then he started laughing. He couldn’t stop. It was uncontrollable. He managed to steer the vehicle into the curb before convulsing, then collapsing, crimson-faced in his seat, his lifeless head slumped over the steering wheel, it’s horn blaring loudly in the dark, empty street.

The comic ran from the cab, with the sounds of peeling laughter resounding all around him. Bounding down the street, he covered his ears in a vain attempt to shut out the incessant shrieking. It was no use. The noise was everywhere, in front of him, behind him, from every building, every vehicle, every shop, the sound of maniacal glee all directed at him.

When he had first met Hilary, she told him she was a student. He had never asked her what she was studying, and she had not thought to mention her subject. It was the Culture and Superstitions of the Caribbean. She also hadn’t bothered to tell him who the comedian was they both watched on that night she almost choked. She had watched his TV performance and recognized the material, the act he stole, the one that killed the sweet, loving old man, her father, Hymie Feinstein. In her hands, she held a small figure, an effigy made from wax and straw. It bore a remarkable resemblance to her ex-boyfriend, Chester Gurevitz. Except for the lower half of the face. Between the nostrils and the chin was his mouth, now elongated obscenely across its face, in a grotesque rictus grin, drawing the cheeks out by several inches in a hideous caricature of the comedian’s features. She would keep stretching out the lips as the sound of merriment enveloped him, smothered him, surrounded him in a grip all of its own. Until the whole world was laughing at him as one. Until he could no longer bear to hear that sound for which he had craved so long.

The End

Stag Night

The guys had arranged my stag night as I knew they would. They had been talking about nothing else for weeks, where we would be going, what we would be doing, how great it would be, et cetera, et cetera. To those of you who may not know, a stag night is a fellow's final fling before he ties the knot and settles down to a life of domestic bliss with his loved one. It's a night where pretty much anything goes. The more staid ones may start in a fancy restaurant where a couple of restrained drinks might be quaffed before hitting the bars, clubs, and so on, where the real high-jinks begins. The object of the exercise is to get the husband-to-be so drunk he doesn't know William Shakespeare from William Shatner. They say that if you can remember your stag night, you never really had one. Sometimes, the real daring ones might end up in a brothel, where all the guys club together to give the poor sap a final 'happy endings' send-off. As if sex-in-marriage is a contradiction in terms. I doubt that will be the case with Janice and me. Everyone came, even some of my friends from the old neighborhood, whom I hadn't seen since high school. I never counted how many turned up, but there couldn't have been far short of twenty. The only two who didn't show were my fiancée's brothers, Ted and Stephen (never Steve or Stevie or Steevo, always Stephen with a 'ph.'). I knew they wouldn’t be sharing the evening with me. They didn't like me, and the feeling was mutual.

We, or rather, my buddies, decided to skip the meal part and head straight to the bars and clubs. The food would just make it all the harder for our bodies to absorb the alcohol. As this was the whole point of the exercise, eating seemed futile and a waste of valuable drinking time. So, we started in Hooper's Bar, the no-frills hostelry at the beginning of the strip. That much I still remember and can vaguely recall the next few pubs we hit. After that, it gets a bit hazy. I seem to recall lying on my back on the floor of some establishment, staring up at the ceiling and wondering why I couldn't see through the roof to the sky beyond. I was sure I had x-ray vision, just like Superman. Alcohol doesn't usually have that effect on me, and I wonder if one of my so-called friends spiked my drink. I wouldn't be surprised. On stag nights, anything can happen, and I've heard of poor souls who've been stripped down to their jocks and roped to a lamp-post. Another guy I heard about was leaving on his honeymoon with his new wife straight from the reception. When they arrived at their hotel suite and opened his overnight case, one hundred and fifty condoms fell out! I hope he got a chance to use them. I don't know what his new wife thought. Maybe she made a daisy-chain with them; who knows?

Anyway, we had a great night, so they told me later. Apparently, I excelled myself and have now become known as the guy who can sing one song to the tune of another, which I did for a large part of the evening. Off-key and unmelodious. I'm glad my intended wasn't there. She would have been mortified, I'm sure. Speaking about my intended, I suppose I had better tell you about the girl I'm due to marry. She's a sweet, gorgeous, and very loving girl called Janice. She has a petite upturned nose with three freckles on the bridge. How cute is that, eh? She has long, auburn hair, always, and I mean always, tied up in a ponytail. I keep telling her that we aren't living in the nineteen sixties anymore. Ponytails went out with bobbysoxers, but she will insist on having it in that style. Well, why not? It's her hair. Janice and I have known each other for about three years and were due to tie the knot some time ago, but it had to be postponed due to a family tragedy. I'm afraid to admit that I was partly responsible for that

You see, Edwin Falkner, that is, Janice's father, invited me around for a 'pep' talk. I assumed it would be the usual blathers, you know, 'she’s my only daughter, so you better treat her right, or else, blah, blah, blah.’ But unfortunately, it wasn’t quite like that. Mr. Falkner confessed that he did not like me, had never liked me, thought Janice could do much better and did not believe me suitable son-in-law material. But then, as if all this was not bad enough, he insulted me by asking how much it would take for me to get out of Janice’s life. Get out of her life? What was he talking about? I love Janice more than I’ve loved any other girl. That stung; it really did. Well, one thing led to another, and before I knew where I was, I was sticking a knife through Falkner’s eye. I think it was his left one, but I’m not sure. Seeing as I had already started, I kept plunging it right through his skull into his brain. The blade made a sort of squelchy, sucking noise as I drove it in. Then his blood started spurting out from his eye (it was the left one), and he just stood there for a second or two before collapsing, trying to absorb what I had just done to him. He was probably dead before he hit the den floor. It was here that he kept his collection of hunting knives and where we were having our little tête-à-tête.

I didn’t even have time to wonder what I would do next when in walked Janice’s mother, Greta. She was talking as she came through the door, holding a tray with cups and a coffee jug, and kept on talking even after she must have seen her husband lying in his own blood. It was the kind of reaction with which you may be familiar. Your eyes see a particular event, but it’s so unusual to your normal routine that your brain has trouble processing what you’ve witnessed and maybe takes a few seconds to catch up. I couldn’t give Greta time to scream, so I quickly pulled out the knife from Falkner’s face and used it on her. I think I got lucky with this one. I panicked, unsure where I was thrusting the blade, but must have hit a vital organ or a main artery or something. Again, she collapsed like a sack of potatoes, blood spurting out everywhere, with cups, coffee, jug, and tray all crashing over the den floor. Someone was going to have to clean up the mess, but it wouldn’t be me. It was quite strange because, even in death, her eyes stayed open, staring at me, accusing me of sending her to an early grave. I’ve often wondered. If she hadn’t appeared at that minute, would I have gone after her, anyway? Probably. I couldn’t just kill her husband and expect to walk away without repercussions now, could I?

And then there were the boys, Ted and Stephen, Stephen with a ‘ph.’ When I mentioned earlier that I knew they wouldn’t be at my stag night, it wasn’t just an educated guess. I knew both of them were in the house, presumably in their bedrooms. We all muttered a brief, grudging greeting when I passed them in the hallway as I arrived. Well, I was now warming to my work, so I went after them. Fortunately, they were in separate rooms. I don’t think I could have taken both of them together. I don’t remember doing it, but I must have somehow extracted the knife from Greta’s body, dripping with her gore as it was. Ted was the first. I had no idea whose bedroom was whose; it was just pure chance. He looked up as he saw me coming in, assuming it was Stephen. I don’t know what caused him the greatest shock, seeing me or seeing me covered in his parents’ blood. This time, there was a scream, but I think it was from me as I lunged after him. He was quick; I’ll say that for him. But he wasn’t thinking straight. Can’t say I blame him. He lifted a bronze statuette, I think it was some sports prize or other, and threw it at me. It nearly got me, too. Then he hefted another, but by this time, I was over at him, driving my knife (well, it was my knife, now) into his body. Had he hurled both objects at me together, there was a good chance that one might have struck me, slowing me down, giving him more time to mount a decent defense or even a counter-attack. But it was no use regretting what might have been. This time, I was more selective about where I thrust the blade. It was through Ted’s neck, the jugular, I think. Isn’t that where Dracula always inserts his fangs? His blood surged out, splattering the walls, the floor, the ceiling, his bed covers, his display shelves, everywhere, especially me, with his life’s precious fluid. He moaned and writhed about for a bit, so I drove it in, again and again. I’m not sure how many times, but after a while, he stopped moaning. And writhing.

This only left Stephen. Stephen and his ‘ph.’ I was glad I had left him till the end, as unintended as it was. Saving the best ‘til last, as they say. I didn’t particularly like either brother, it’s true. But where I might have tolerated Ted, even for Janice’s sake, I loathed Stephen. Whether it was because of his superior airs and his upper-class pretentiousness, I can’t say. Always looking down his nose at me, feeling so smug, so knowing. Of the four deaths I caused that evening, Stephen’s was by far the most satisfying. Satisfying because, unlike Ted, Stephen offered no resistance, cowering into a corner of his room, sheer terror on his face as he must have known what was about to happen. With Stephen, I took my time. Janice was spending the night with one of her friends, a ‘sleepover,’ I think they call it. So there was no need to rush. I had all the time in the world, well, not quite, but you know what I mean. Very slowly and deliberately, I tore a strip from Stephen’s bedsheet, which I then stuffed into his mouth. He was too afraid to even think about trying to spit it out, not that I would have let him, anyway. Once I was sure that he couldn’t cry out, or at least not loud enough for anyone to hear, I set to work. I would start with his eyes, but then I knew I wanted him to see what I was doing to him. No, I would save his eyes until the end. So I started on the rest of his anatomy. The ears were first, if I remember correctly. I sliced them off one at a time, and then I cut into his nostrils. The tears and snot and blood were mingling together, making a small pudding across his face. Then I started on his fingers, one joint at a time. After I had finished with his hands, I set to work on his feet. I’m not going to dwell on the rest. Let’s just say that he wouldn’t have been a pretty sight to whoever found him. I’m only disappointed that he collapsed unconscious with shock half-way through my artistry. If I’d known he was going to do that, I would have started with his eyes, after all. So he never made the slightest sound when I plucked his eyeballs, one at a time, out of their sockets.

Drenched in the blood of four people, I couldn’t go out as I was. I stripped off all my clothes, underwear, everything, then stood under the shower for at least twenty minutes, washing and scrubbing every last trace of blood off me. After I had toweled myself dry, I took all my clothes, shoes, including the brushes and towel I had used, and wrapped them in a plastic refuse bag. Ted was about the same height and build as I am, so I took some of his clothes to redress myself. The only things that didn’t fit were his shoes. He must have had tiny feet, and they pinched like crazy. Still, it was only until I got home, then I would take all the clothes, his and mine, and make a nice little bonfire. Just before I left, I made sure I hadn’t left any bloody hand or shoeprints anywhere. As a frequent visitor to the house, it didn’t matter if they found any non-blood finger marks. In fact, they might have found it curious if my fingerprints weren’t anywhere in evidence. Naturally, the police interviewed me, but I must have given a passably good performance of a grieving soon-to-be (or, rather, never-to-be) son-in-law. I think it was Janice’s standing by my side, squeezing my hand tightly in hers, that helped convince them of my non-involvement in this horrendous crime. My best stroke of luck was Janice not knowing where I was. She didn’t know that her old man had summoned me over to her house. He didn’t tell her what he was about to do, as I expect he realized what her reaction would be. I never mentioned it either, as I intended to tell her about it later. I gave them a half-assed alibi as to where I was at the time which they bought. I told them I was out looking for wedding rings in jewelers' shop windows. I must say, I don’t understand why they’ve never been back. Hell, I would be suspicious of myself if I were in their place. Four members of the one family brutally slain by a person or persons unknown. You’d think they might have made a bit more effort to solve the case. But I guess that’s just typical of our local law enforcement officers. Rumor has it that they couldn’t find their own asses with both hands and a GPS tracker. Whatever the reason, they haven’t bothered me again, and I am certainly not going anywhere near them. ‘Don’t tempt fate,’ my old grandpa used to say. ‘He’s just awaitin’ for someone to trip up, and then he’ll have ’em.’

This all happened just over a year ago. The grieving process is almost over, and it is why we have finally fixed a date for our wedding. Life is slowly getting back to normal. Or, it was. Janice tells me I’ve been talking in my sleep, mumbling things, things she can’t quite make out. She thinks it sounds as if I’m calling out her folks’ names. She believes this must be the way I am expressing my grief for their loss. I’m beginning to think otherwise. If it continues to go on like this, I might yet blurt out things I would prefer her not to know. Not now, not ever. I love Janice, I truly do, and it would be a shame if anything bad were to happen to her, especially now. She told me the other day she is expecting our child. It will be a boy.

The End.

Diabolus Et Prophetiis

In the first and second centuries after the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, priests and sages began to write a book based on the texts of those who followed His teachings. They also included works of other contemporary writers of the time. This book would come to be known as the New Testament. Those who collaborated on this work were scrupulous in what they notated. Some writings were omitted because they were similar or identical to other accounts of the period. More tractates were disregarded for different reasons, and others still were not included as they were considered too dangerous, heretical, and even blasphemous. Some of these forbidden works were burnt, but others were kept hidden in secret vaults whose existence was known only to a select group of biblical scholars and people of the highest learning. Throughout the centuries, the knowledge of these papers was handed down to a secret cadre of similarly minded individuals, known as The Group Of Twelve. Each member swore on the most sacred of oaths never to reveal their contents. Discussion of these sealed documents was confined to specific times, and only those bound by these vows were permitted to attend such gatherings. With each generation, more understanding was gained of these works until the time would come when it was believed that the portends they contained were finally about to be fulfilled. These writings were known as Diabolus Et Prophetiis or The Satanic Prophecies.

Neville Buchanan had spent more years than he cared to remember in the service of the state. In fact, he could not recall any life he had before joining the Directorate. His past had been erased from his memory. They had seen to that. Better he did not know how he had come to work for them. It might cloud his judgment, skew his reasoning when reasoning was all-important to the job at hand. He might remember he once had a conscience, a moral compass which, however flawed, was still an integral part of his being. They had turned him from being a man of peace with a quiet, insightful intellect into a murderer. Neville was an assassin, a dedicated killer, trained to eliminate those his government said were their enemies, enemies of his country. They taught him how to use all kinds of firearms. Rifles with telescopic sights which fired projectiles that could kill someone over a mile away, to more personal sidearms, revolvers, automatic and semi-automatic, machine pistols, all of it. They showed him how to use a knife and, if a knife wasn’t available, how to improvise with whatever sharp object was on hand. They instructed him in all sorts of hand-to-hand combat techniques and the quickest, quietest, and most effective way to take out his opponents. They even showed him how to use a garrote, how to strangle manually, how to take a life with a rolled-up newspaper, and how to stop someone breathing with the use of only one finger. They explained the times it might be better to use poisons and taught him how to administer them so no trace of the lethal cocktail could ever be traced. They schooled him in all the arts of killing, and he employed each of them during his long and non-illustrious career. Early on in his time with them, they told Neville that it was not his place to ask questions about the moral, ethical, or even legal imperatives. His role was a simple one; best not to over-complicate it. So he dispatched his country’s foes without question, without demurring, without remorse. It was his job; it was what he did. But now, he had had enough. He wanted out. He was starting to experience dreams, something he had never done. Or if he did, they had vanished on his awakening, like an early morning summer mist. But these dreams did not disappear when he opened his eyes. He could remember them all too vividly. Visions of those he had killed in the service of his country, now coming back to sit in judgment on him. Pointing accusing fingers, showing the scars or holes he had made on them. At first, he ignored these, shaking his head as if to excise them from his mind. For a while, this tactic had worked. But then they became more persistent. They encroached on his thought patterns and eventually made him doubt what he was doing and why he was doing what he did. He even asked himself the most heretical of questions: who exactly were the good guys? Were they the people he worked for or those they had tasked him with killing? He did not know anymore. So he had tendered his resignation.

They accepted his decision with equanimity. It was not as if they could do much about his intentions. His was not a nine-to-five job with a manager always standing over him, overseeing his work. They had invested much in his training, but he had repaid them time after time until the debit was definitely on their side of the balance sheet. And he had been good. He had been the best they had ever used, had never failed an assignment. His performance had always been exemplary, so they had no reason to refuse him his retiral with a pension. But they had one last job for him to do. Just one more, then he was out. Out for good. But he had heard that one before. There would always be ‘just one more.’ Neville knew how they worked, but not this time. He was too smart for them. Neville wanted this in writing, signed, sealed, and delivered; in triplicate. There was always the fine print, of course, but he would make damn sure he read and re-read every word of every line of every sentence of every paragraph of the whole document. There would be no loopholes, no subtle clauses for them to hide behind, to use against him. When he said he wanted out, he meant out. He would accommodate their request and carry out this final assignment. Then it would be over. For good.

When they gave him the identity of his target, he thought this was their idea of a going-away prank. Or it would have been if they had had a sense of humor. It couldn’t be him; it just couldn’t be! For the first, last, and only time in his career, he queried the hit. Was this right? Surely there had to be a mistake. Not this individual, never him! But he was told there was no mistake. The mark had been identified and verified. This was a code five mission. He had only ever had to handle one other such directive before. Code five – you must, if necessary, forfeit your own life to achieve your objective. Not that they thought it would be essential in this case, but the target was so important, they had to consider all eventualities. And this edict had come from the Head of The Directorate himself. No one had ever seen or spoken to this figure. It might even be a woman. No one knew. All communications to and from this person were conducted through email, SMS, and other untraceable means of correspondence. But not by him. Even his immediate superior had no direct access. He might walk past them in the street or be in the same well-lit room. He would still be in the dark. And as for his final target. There was no doubt that this was who he had to eliminate. But this man was a man of the highest integrity, the most exceptional caliber. Someone who had done so much to bring people together. Those of diametrically opposite political views, both domestically and internationally. Politicians and others who would barely agree to be in the same room as their counterparts. Somehow he had managed it. He had made the impossible possible. Countries who sought to conquer their neighbors by force, Governments who mistrusted the motives of other administrations, all suddenly found that, in his presence, they had more in common than that which divided them. This individual was a person who was beyond reproach, above condemnation. It did not make any sense. This man, Doctor Walter Aitchison, was the world’s best hope for survival, for salvation.

But then the Directorate told him. This figure was not all he seemed to be. There was a dark side to his nature that he had kept hidden. It would be no good to expose it, even if they had had the evidence to do so. No one would believe it. But this man was a danger, the greatest threat the world had ever known. He was just biding his time, awaiting the opportunity to put his evil plans into operation. Then everyone would see him for who he truly was, what he truly was. But by then, it would be too late. This situation could not be allowed to happen. He had to be stopped, and The Directorate was given the mission. This order had not just come from his government. It had come from many. All united in concern regarding Aitchison’s secret agenda. And there was one final condition to this contract. He was not to carry out the execution remotely. Neville had to execute this kill face to face. Aitchison had to see, he had to know in his final moments alive, that all his schemes, his years of planning, his patient maneuvering, had been for nothing. He had to know that at the last, he had failed.

Before his recruitment to this ultra-clandestine organization, Neville had been a priest. He had worked, had volunteered to work in the poorest parts of the community, doing what he could to help those less fortunate, those whom society had ceased to see as human beings. Wives and children who were beaten and abused by their menfolk and fathers; men and women who did not know how to say ‘no,’ when to stop, either drinking or gambling or doing drugs. He tended the homeless and the dispossessed, those who once had everything but now had nothing. Sometimes all he could give them was God’s benediction, His pity, His love. But he could provide them with something more, something greater even than those; he could give them hope. Until that day. It started like any other day, with no reason to think it should end any differently, but it did

He was in his local store, purchasing some groceries for an old couple who had fallen on hard times. They had lost all their money on bad investments, investments their broker assured them were ‘solid gold.’ They were anything but. Not even tin, and as for the broker? He was long gone with their money. So there they both were, this elderly, loving, naïve couple having to decide day by day whether they should eat or keep warm. They could not do both. And into all this, there came a young woman with a baby in her arms. She was buying formula for her infant when out of nowhere, two masked gunmen burst into the grocery shop, demanding all the money in the till. It all happened at the same moment when the young mother was reaching into her coat pocket for her purse. Mistaking her actions, the gunmen fired off countless shots at her, killing both her and her infant daughter. The whole scenario played out within a few seconds, and the men fled without waiting for the money that the storekeeper was about to hand over. Rooted to the spot in helplessness and impotence, something changed within Neville. Something snapped. He had put himself among these people to help them, yet others valued human life so cheaply.

Well, those who thought such things would only have themselves to blame from now on. He would still be a priest and carry out his parochial duties, but now he would become someone else, something else, too. He continued to believe in God, but he found it harder to maintain his faith, especially after what had occurred in front of him. Where was God then? Even if the mother had somehow sinned in her past and deserved what happened to her, how could an infant be punished in such a cruel and final way? A child who had probably not yet even reached her first birthday. It seemed that the Almighty was indiscriminate as to whom He chose to punish and those He elected to save. But, he, Neville Buchanan, would not be so arbitrary. The good, the pious, and the Godfearing would have nothing to fear from him. Only those who walked the path of evil would suffer his wrath, and yes, they would suffer. He would see to it.

In his day garb, Neville was the last person anyone suspected when local villains started disappearing or turning up beaten, knifed, or shot. Whoever it was who was doing it, well, they could keep on doing it, as far as the law-abiding folks were concerned. The more scum who ended up dead, the less there would be to terrorize them. But Neville was not a professional killer. Not then. He made mistakes, and eventually, they caught him. The Church managed to use its influence to keep their priest’s name out of the media, and some of the detectives who finally arrested Neville only did so reluctantly. He was doing what they would have liked to do but could not. The Church had arranged for one of their lawyers, an attorney named Graham Chalmers, to defend Neville. He was still being held in the precinct cell. Chalmers had read the brief with astonishment. It was almost unbelievable that anyone, especially a priest, could have performed so many slayings. The fact that all his victims were low-life hoods made no difference.

What had surprised the attorney more than anything was the natural proficiency at which Neville had carried out his ‘work.’ It was almost as if the priest had been born into the role. Chalmers had the merest germ of an idea, one which might save the young priest from a lifetime in prison. He had heard of a group of people, part of a secret organization dedicated to preserving the country's security. This group was not accountable to its government, was above regular scrutiny, and answerable only to its own code of conduct. The lawyer’s brother was involved with the Secret Service, those whose remit was to guard the life of the country’s leader. It was through him that he had become familiar with the rumors. That was all they were – rumors. But what if there were any substance to these ‘myths’? There was only one way to find out. He would ask his brother to investigate discretely.

As it happened, the Directorate was already aware of the avenging priest and saw the potential of having someone like him within their ranks. It did not take much to convince Neville that he could do far more good outside prison than within its walls, a position with which the young priest agreed. And so it was arranged that he was secretly removed from where he was imprisoned. They took him to the Directorate’s training facility, where they honed his innate abilities, sharpened his skills, molded him into what they wanted – a capable killing machine. But they also did something else. They destroyed his soul.

It had not been difficult to arrange a meeting between Neville and Aitchison. He was or had been, a priest, after all. Very few people knew he was no longer a man of the cloth. The Directorate had suppressed his criminal activities, and even the Bishop had no idea what had happened to him. He had just simply vanished. Better that way. The Directorate had used its considerable influence to manage the interview. Aitchison seemed more than happy to give the young ‘priest’ a few minutes of his valuable time. It might be constructive for both parties. With his weapon safely concealed under his robes, Neville approached his target. The man appeared eager to meet with him and motioned him to sit down on the opposite armchair in his hotel room. Aitchison was so busy these days he barely remembered the last time he had been home. Sometimes, he found it hard to recall where his home actually was. The doctor waved away his security team. If he couldn’t trust a priest, who could he trust? It would be fine; everything would be just fine. Neville engaged in some small talk and spoke of religious matters concerning his church. Aitchison turned away to relight his Meerschaum pipe, the pipe he carried everywhere. When he looked up, he saw Neville, Neville the Priest, standing before him with the knife. It was not so much a knife, more a stiletto, with a long slim blade.

Neville did not know what to expect, but Aitchison’s reaction was certainly not what he imagined it would be. It was not one of terror. His expression was a mixture of calmness, pity, and sadness. A smile of serene, almost beatific, acceptance played around his lips. It was almost as if Aitchison had been expecting this to happen. Aitchison, one of The Group Of Twelve, who, as Neville’s blade was piercing his heart, recalled the words of Diabolus Et Prophetiis. ‘

And it is foretold that in the final days when men have waged war upon men, and brother has fought with brother that one will come to heal. He will be the bearer of peace and shall speak with a voice of great fellowship, so man will no longer have grievance with each other and shall turn from the ways of conflict. His words shall flow like sweet wine, and many will see the truth in his goodness. But others shall arise who will plot against this man of goodwill and confound his teachings. They shall call themselves the Righteous Ones but will speak with false oaths and will cause the truly Righteous One to be quietened. He who once walked with the Almighty shall turn away his ear from His teachings, and no more shall sanctify the Name. He will be filled with the rage of the false prophets and smite the one who would bring peace. And these false prophets shall sow the seeds of discord and chaos in the minds of men until the truth shall not be known. Then they will know the ways of war once more and take up arms against their fellow man. And destruction shall rain down from the heavens bringing death in its wake, and the skies will be rent asunder until a great cloud of smoke consumes all the nations. And when all the spears of fire have been extinguished, and the world shall be in darkness and ruin, then man shall say unto man, “What have we done to bring this calamity upon ourselves?” From out of this devastation, the One shall arise to take dominion over all the men of the earth and the beasts of the field and the fishes of the sea. To Him alone shall praises be sung and worship be offered. The One True God shall turn His face away from the hearts of men, and The Lord Of Darkness shall reign. To the Antichrist alone shall all men's souls belong. And His kingdom shall be everlasting, and man will know peace no more.

Neville did not yet see that outside, the wind had started to get stronger, rain clouds were forming overhead and the skies had begun to darken, a symbolic metaphor, perhaps, for what was to come. He had completed his final mission, as it had been written, as it had been foretold

The End

Self-Made Man

Well, Chuck had done it; he’d finally done it. It had taken one hell of a time, and as for the planning permits, you’d think he was going to build on the White House lawn. All he wanted was a little plot of land in the woods, a clearing, where he could construct his mountain hideaway. Five or six hundred square feet perhaps, certainly no more than a thousand, that’s all he would need. Why did everyone have to make things so complicated? This was The United States, the Land Of Freedom and Opportunity. Where anything was possible if you had the drive, the vision, and yes, of course, the money to succeed. Oh, really? Some of these mindless bureaucrats must have thought they’d relocated to the PRC. ‘You require how much land?’ You need a particular form for that. ‘You want to build where?’ ‘You need a special license for that. ‘Your structure is going to be how high?’ You definitely need a regulatory authority for that. Signed; in triplicate. Even out in the middle of fucking nowhere. So many documents, getting passed from one petty official to another. Why should wanting to build a small cabin in the woods cause such a headache? He wondered what it must be like for real developers, those companies who constructed whole housing projects. How did they ever manage to lay any bricks? Then it dawned on him. Of course. These guys had council officials in their pockets—a few dollar bills in a plain, brown manila envelope—backslapping and glad-handing at the right functions. Making sure they gave ‘donations’ to the right causes. Anyway, it had all now been concluded. All the paperwork that was required to be completed was completed. Signed; in triplicate. He could now forge ahead and start. He had found a local builder and given him the blueprints. That was something else he needed to do. These pissant penpushers wouldn’t take his sketches, carefully drawn to scale with measurements. Oh, no, sir! He had to employ an architect, an architect for Chrissakes. He tried to explain; he wasn’t making a replica of the Sears Tower. He just wanted a single-level lumber lodge. But, no. For them to even consider his proposals, he needed to employ a professional designer. They could recommend someone, they said. ‘I bet they could,’ he thought. At twice the going rate with them getting a kickback for the referral, no doubt. No, thank you. He would find his own. And he did.

It didn’t take long for the construction company to complete the project. It wasn’t a difficult job, and to be fair, their client wasn’t as particular as others for whom they had done similar work. Chuck just wanted a simple, small log cabin where he could spend some time away from the hustle and bustle of Madison Street on the Lower East Side. A place where he could stretch out and relish the quiet ambiance of his second home in the Allegheny Mountains, not far from Ticonderoga. All he had to do now was to tell Marcia. Boy, would she get a shock? Her boyfriend had actually built his secret hideout, his Fortress of Solitude. Her disorganized, uncoordinated, dysfunctional better half had not only purchased a parcel of land, but he had also erected a house on it. He hoped she would be as thrilled for him as he was for himself. He should have known better. Marcia regarded Chuck with horror. He had done what? He had gone behind her back and spent money, funds they did not have, on a useless piece of property and built a lodge that they would probably never use! At least, she, Marcia, would never go to this cabin. Where was it? ‘Out in the middle of fucking nowhere, that’s where,’ she screamed at him. ‘Surrounded by wild animals, poisonous plants and insects, and snakes.’ Snakes, the very word made her shudder. What was he thinking of? Had he gone mad? Yes, that was it, only not just mad. Insane, criminally fucking insane. Was it too late to try to recover some of their money? Perhaps they could say he hadn’t been well, the pressure of work, illness, anything. ‘Not of sound mind’ was the phrase that came to mind. She would get a lawyer; maybe they might be able to think of a solution. They certainly charged enough. Yes, that’s what she would do; she’d find an attorney. This was the last straw, she told him. She would never, could never go anywhere near that place, no matter what he said.

Chuck was unprepared for such a reaction and thought the best thing to do would be just to keep quiet and let her calm down. Maybe when she thought it through a bit more, she would see it wasn’t such a bad investment after all. It wasn’t just for him; it was for both of them, and there weren’t any snakes out there – well, not that many. He decided to give her the apartment to herself. His presence was only exacerbating an already fraught situation. He would go out for a little while, try to find a way to turn her around. It would be easier to push the Empire State building over with your pinkie, he thought. He had been walking the streets for about half an hour when it struck him. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Smiling knowingly to himself, he strolled back to their flat, considering the best way to bring it up, the way he would persuade her not just to want to go, but to demand to go.

Marcia had calmed down a little by the time he returned but was still furious. Inviting her to sit with him on the sofa, he took her reluctant, trembling hands in his. Smiling, he whispered in her ear. At first, she couldn’t make out what he said, so he repeated it. She looked at him, silently shaking her head, but she, too, was now grinning. She asked him to explain a bit more. So he did. Several times. Marcia’s eyes now sparkled with delight as she imagined what would happen when they arrived there. Maybe there had been method in his madness, after all. And there was something else, a secret of her own, something she would save as a surprise.

Chuck had dressed the timber bungalow with furniture he was positive she would like. He sure had got it wrong with her reaction to his project but was certain that the room décor would meet with her approval. They had been together long enough for him to know her tastes. Marcia entered the cabin hesitantly, not sure what she would find. She soon nodded in grudging approbation as she acknowledged he had tried to decorate it as she would have wanted. It wasn’t perfect, but at least he’d made the effort. She smiled her approval at him. The only thing they didn’t have was power. The generator, the oil-fueled ‘genny,’ was to have been delivered last week, but the company had got their dates mixed up and believed he didn’t want it until the following Tuesday. No matter. There was plenty of kindling, and he would get a fire going soon. This would give the place a real, homely feel. He would also light the wood-burning stove and make them both a nice home-cooked meal. Later, they would have time to enjoy the solitude of the place and indulge in their shared interest, the reason he had finally persuaded her to accompany him.

He carried her over the threshold of the bedroom door, like a new bride on her wedding night. They were already undressed, having disrobed over the dining table. She was giggling with the promise of what was to come, her whole body trembling with anticipated delights. If he had forgotten to pack it, she would never forgive him, but he wouldn’t be that stupid, would he? And she still had her surprise for him. It was now dark outside, and the storm lantern he had lit cast eerie dark shapes across the walls and ceiling. It almost looked as if there were more moving shadows around them than there were people in the room. Dancing naked in the dim light over to the suitcase, he rummaged inside and brought out the object triumphantly for her to see. She made to grab it, but he playfully pushed her outstretched arm away. Again she tried, and again he brushed her grasping hand out of its reach. Tauntingly, enticingly, he held it up in front of her, both laughing as each knew he would eventually relent and hand it to her. It was hers, after all, to do with as she pleased, and she certainly intended to please herself, that was for sure

What he was teasing her with was the largest vibrator either of them had ever seen. He had purchased it for her on the internet, no local adult store having anything like it. It was more than twice the size of a regular synthetic phallus. It was called ‘The Pleasurizer,’ and it lived up to its name. It was so big, Marcia had trouble inserting it because, even wet and lubricated, it hurt her. She was a screamer anyway, but when she used this monster, she had to stifle her gratifying expressions of passion. The walls to their apartment were paper thin, and the neighbors would surely hear her cries of ecstasy. It would be embarrassing and shameful for both parties, to say the least, as they passed each other on the communal stairs. But out here, in this forest wilderness, there was no one to listen to her moans as she orgasmed, over and over. She could pleasure herself to her heart’s content, shout and scream as loud as she wanted, and spend the whole night in rapturous euphoria. She glanced at her boyfriend in silent gratitude. Ever since his illness, Chuck had not been the same. Not the man he was. Or ever would be.

After a while, Marcia suddenly stopped and looked up. She asked him if he heard it. He must have heard it, the noise from outside. Chuck looked at her blankly. Noise? What noise? He hadn’t heard anything. It must be her imagination. Forget it. Get back to what she was doing. He liked to see her in this condition. It brought back so many happy memories. Memories of times when she never required artificial stimulation, times when he was all she needed, all she wanted. But those times were over. For good. She couldn’t rest. She had definitely heard something, she was sure. Patiently, he asked her what kind of noise. It was like a rustling sound, she said, like leaves, but moving forward, getting closer to their cabin. Shielding his eyes against the glare of the lamp, he looked out the window into the darkness. Trying as hard as he could, he scanned the surrounding area. He could see nothing. All the same, he did not like to see her in this heightened state of trepidation and alarm. He offered to get dressed and go outside to convince her there was nothing and nobody close by. Fearfully, she grabbed his bare arm and begged him to stay with her. She was frightened of being left alone, and even more worried about what might befall him. Marcia didn’t want either of them setting one foot outside the door, not until it got light.

She was now shaking, trembling with fear. It was no use. She would not feel safe until morning. To assuage her anxiety, he tried his cell phone just in case, but they were too far away from the nearest mast. He was not getting any signal. This was definitely not what he had in mind when he built his little piece of heaven. It had turned into a hell. He could see the terror in her eyes. There was only one thing for it. The local building ordinance stated that every home constructed in the area, especially dwellings such as his, had to have a storm bunker under the property. They would be safe there. Would that help her? Yes, it would. Tearfully, she let him throw a blanket around her while, grabbing both sets of clothes, he guided her to the trapdoor that led to the underground shelter. He lit the emergency lantern, throwing some illumination across the windowless room.

Eventually, she seemed to calm down and began to breathe normally again. She even managed a wry smile, as if to say sorry for being such a neurotic girlfriend. He grinned back lovingly. They would remain here until daybreak, then drive home. One thing was for sure. He would never bring her back for sexual pleasure or any other reason.

It was now time for her to reveal her present to him. Slowly, she pulled a knife from under her blanket, the one she had artfully lifted from beneath the pillow where she had placed it earlier. She had skillfully hidden it until now. It was a big weapon. He looked at her confused, wondering if she was playing some sick, violent sex game with him. But this was no game. Before he could even think about defending himself, she lunged at him, plunging the eight-inch blade through his neck. Although she was staring wildly straight at him, she did not appear to notice his look of shock, amazement, and utter horror as he automatically brought his hand to the gaping wound. She drew out the blade and, in a frenzy, stabbed him again and again, randomly, all over his exposed body, blood spurting out everywhere, splattering, gushing onto the surrounding walls, the shelves, the floor, even the roof of the bunker. It was, of course, all over her too, but she would wash it off shortly.

Finally, she was rid of him, this millstone around her neck. Always spending money they didn’t have on projects they couldn’t afford. He was slowly bankrupting them. She had asked him, begged him, over and over, please stop already; enough was enough. But, no, he wouldn’t listen to her. It was as if he was using up their savings as compensation for not being able to perform for her anymore. Like wasting all their money would compensate her for his lack of sexual ability! What was he thinking? This timber vanity was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back. Even as she had been shouting at him for buying the property, a plot was hatching in her scheming brain. This would be the ideal opportunity. The structure, so he told her, was in one of the more isolated parts of the forest. Hardly anyone would know it was there; would know he was there. Feigning reticence but still allowing him the illusion of persuading her to get him to bring them both down here had been a stroke of inspiration, and the storm shelter had been an unforeseen bonus. He might lay down here for months, maybe even years, before his decaying body would be discovered. She would be well away by then, with a new name, living in a different state. She had executed her plan brilliantly, if she said so herself

Marcia didn’t hear the door to the cabin opening and who, or rather, what, was entering. At the height of her sexual climax, when she was at the apex of her carnal ecstasy, she had unconsciously tapped into something, some unseen, primeval, powerful force that had been dormant in the woods for generations, centuries, millennia. As she was experiencing the sexual thrill of her life, she was thinking of how she would persuade Chuck to get them into the cellar. It was at this moment that, in her mind, the concept became a reality. In the throes of her self-gratification, she had unwittingly given life to this latent nemesis, and now it was here. Amorphous, shapeless, in the undefined form of a man, but without human features, bereft of human passions, devoid of human emotions. The only feeling this creature had was the compulsion she had imbued it with. The instinct to kill. Marcia would soon scream her lungs out, scream as she had never screamed before. Then she would not scream again.

The End

The Final Arbiter

For many centuries, millennia, in fact, the common consensus has been that when you die, you go to heaven where you are judged by either Saint Peter or the Big Guy Himself. If you’ve led a good, clean, wholesome life, then, by and large, you get to go through the Pearly Gates. If you’ve been a bit, let’s say, naughty, then maybe you’ll be destined for the Big Bad Fire. It has been the accepted wisdom since time immemorial. If you are an agnostic or an atheist, or just don’t believe in life after death, then, well, tough luck. Who knows where you’ll end up? For you, it is all over when you take your final breath. Or is it really? But for those who do believe in the afterlife, well, I’m afraid I’ve got some rather unsettling news for you. It’s not as cut and dried as you think, as you want to believe. It’s not as straightforward as you’ve been taught by your ministers, your priests, your rabbis, and your mullahs, or the religious leaders of whichever faith you happen to follow.

You see, when your essence, that part of you which survives after your physical body dies, goes to where it goes, there is not just one Celestial Being waiting for you; there are three. Now, if you’re not already sitting down, then this might be the ideal time to grab a chair. It’s a bit like The X Factor. First, there’s who I like to call the Simon Cowell of the Great Beyond. This Being doesn’t look the faintest bit like Simon, and Simon would be happy to hear it. This creature is a hob. Now, the traditional image of this creature, for those of you who don’t already know, is a kind of folksy, gremlin-like figure, like a Hobbit. (Tolkien may have been even more prescient than he has been given credit for). Except, this version is not strictly correct. A true hob is much, much more dangerous and evil, a disciple of you-know-who. In its raw state, it is red, just as you might imagine, but without the horns. Only one guy has them, if you know who I mean. It is tiny, but don’t let its diminutive size fool you for one minute. This thing is lethal if you cross it, and often, even when you don’t. It can make your life, your earthly life, that is, an absolute misery in so many ways. It can take the form of a human, man or woman, and beguile you with its winsome personality. It can deceive you, tempt you, and entice you to commit the most obscene acts your mind can imagine. As long as you comply with its seductive wishes, you usually won’t come to harm. If, however, you break out from its enchanting spell, well, its retribution can be, and often is, merciless. It sounds like a fairy story, but believe me, this ain’t no Brothers Grimm. The only thing it cannot disguise, and how, if you’re smart and canny, you’ll be able to recognize one, is its smell. It gives off an odor of sulfur, and you know why that is, don’t you? Now, why am I telling you all this? Well, I’ll get to that a bit later.

The point I’m finally coming around to is this; this thing wants you. It wants to mentor you (see, this is where the Simon influence kicks in), but not just to advise you; to guide you; it wants to turn you into what it is. Something without a soul, without even the slightest shred of a conscience. It wants you to become him (or her), to perpetuate its vile influence on humanity. And it is smart. It knows just how to press your buttons, oh, yes. It will look into the furthest depths of your soul, and even if you’ve been law-abiding and God-fearing, it will find something. It will dissect your memories clinically, forensically, and it will succeed. Nobody is that innocent. It will see your darkest secrets, your guilty desires, that which you so desperately wanted in life but were too timid, too honest, to take. And it will offer them to you. Present them to you and promise you everything you always wished for; your innermost cravings there for the asking. But, for a price. That price? To do its bidding, to be what it wants you to be. Do you take it? Yes or no?

Before you make up your mind, let me introduce you to the second member of this tribunal. It is a certain type of angel called a Power. That’s right, a Power. If heavenly measurements could be explained as human values, it would be a little taller than an average-sized man. That is, around six-and-a-half feet, say two meters in new money. It is translucent in appearance, with a milky-white presence. The Power emits an aura of tranquility and peacefulness, which, believe it or not, can be quite overpowering. As you would expect, it also has two symmetrical wings on its back. These wings are large in proportion to its body size, and even folded, can easily be seen behind its back. They are very plumage-full, and quite beautiful to look at. Now, usually, these angels would be in constant conflict with hobs, fighting with them for control of the human race. Yeah, sounds grand, doesn’t it? I bet you thought this battle of Good and Evil for the souls of humanity was fought between God and Satan themselves. Well, it used to be. But sometime in the distant past, they both decided to outsource. It was the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object paradox. Each knew they could never defeat the other, and quite frankly, they both had better things to do. Hence the hob and the Power. Now, you’ll notice one is capitalized, and one isn’t. Not my choice. That’s just how it is.

Anyway, as you might have guessed, the Power is the antithesis of the hob. It is Goodness personified, if you could class angels as such. Its job is to seek out the best, the noblest, the most worthy deeds in the essences’ earthly existence and use these experiences to get them into the Life Everlasting. The Power will try to persuade the essence that they still don’t really want all the things they coveted when they were alive. What would be the point? It might have escaped their notice, but they were dead! It would all be just an illusion. But would that be such a bad thing, especially when the illusion would last forever? Could still be worth it, you might think. Yes, it might indeed, and that’s why the Power has Its work cut out for It. But what does It have to offer? How can It entice the essence to want to live in everlasting celestial paradise? No fast, expensive cars, no endless supply of money, no fame and recognition for achievement - deserved or not, no amenable women or men. What then? Well, if you boil it right down, not a hell of a lot (if you’ll pardon the phraseology). Spending eternity doing what? Yeah, sure, it would be fun, and maybe even interesting, to look up long-dead relatives, even those you never knew, but what then? How long could they regale you with tales of their past when they were alive? How often would you want to hear the same stories retold over and over? You were dead for a long time.

Of course, there was the peace and quiet, the beautiful ambiance and tranquility of the place. Yeah, but if you wanted all that, you could have gone to live in New Hampshire. Or Alaska. It’s difficult to play a game of poker when your opponent always has a royal flush. And that’s precisely how Power feels. His Boss deals him a crap hand, while the bad guy - he gets the pick of the cards. Sharping on a celestial scale. So there we are. Representatives from two supernatural species that should be in perpetual conflict are in close proximity, arguing over the essences of the newly departed.

But wait. Didn’t I mention three members of this tribunal at the start of this monologue? I’m sure I did. Hang on; I’ll just flip over and check. Won’t be a minute…

OK, I’m back. Are you still here? Oh, good. Yes, I was right; I did say three. Well, you might be wondering who this third entity is. We’ve come this far, after all. This third character in our narrative, this Being, too, has a name. It is called The Final Arbiter. This figure might be dressed how you would imagine a mysterious spiritual being should be. A long black hooded robe masking features which are concealed in shadow. Its arms bent at the elbows, joining together at the cuffs concealing whatever hands it may have. This form has sat quietly all this time. It has not moved. It has not spoken. It is located exactly equidistantly to an accuracy only heaven can achieve between the forces of Good and Evil. It is now time to reveal its identity.

The more astute among you may be asking who I am and how I know all these things. During my discourse, you may have noticed that I have referred to the subject of this essay by the epithet of an ‘essence,’ not a ‘spirit.’ or a ‘soul.’ There is a reason for this. Basically, an essence is a spirit that has been distilled down to its most fundamental elemental level. It is the spark that ultimately influences and defines what you will become, what you are, what you have been. And The Final Arbiter? The Final Arbiter is that spark. It is me. It is you, and you, and you, and you… it is the time when you will sit in judgment upon yourself. Without prejudice, without expectations, without emotion. The Final Arbiter is waiting for you. Are you ready…?

The End

It’s Not A Wonderful Life (Co-written with Gary Philips)

Matlock Evans was young and successful. Still two years from his thirtieth birthday, he was already Department Head of one of the city's most prestigious recruitment companies. Eager for advancement, he put in the hours, did the work, and applied himself diligently to his duties. But apart from all this, Matlock was something else. He was grateful. Yes, it was he who had achieved it all by his own efforts. Yet, somewhere inside himself, Matlock knew that there was a driving force, something beyond his innate capabilities that was guiding him. So he gave thanks. At least once every day, he would find a quiet corner in his office and his mind and say a few words of gratitude to whatever unseen presence was helping him along.

It all began to go wrong one Saturday morning. It was late May, and the worst of the winter had given way to a mild spring. The forecast was that summer, just around the corner, would be warmer than usual. Dressed casually for his day off, Matlock visited his local grocery store, buying his weekly necessities. His long hours precluded him from shopping during the week. Typically, by the time he left the office, he was too tired to do anything other than go home, eat a pre-cooked meal, and put his feet up. As his purchases were gliding along the conveyor belt, Matlock pulled out his credit card, preparing to hand it over in payment. The last of his groceries being scanned, the young assistant told Matlock the cost. He wasn’t bothering to listen to the amount as he was packing his stuff into carrier bags. It didn’t matter, anyway. He bought what he had to, and there was more than enough money in the account to purchase far in excess than whatever the total was. He put the card in the machine and keyed in his PIN. Then something unexpected happened. A message came up on the card reader screen; ‘declined.’ Without fuss, he rescanned it and again saw the same notice. Must be some glitch in the system, he assumed, so he pulled out another card and applied it to the scanner. The same letters appeared. He could just about understand the bank rejecting one card, but two? This was really weird, but by now, a queue had formed behind him. Not wishing to hold them up any more than he had already, he paid for his groceries in cash.

He would have to address this situation immediately. Not even mindful of the frozen items in his bags, he called the bank from his cell phone once he got inside his car. After the usual wait, he was put through to customer services, explaining what had happened. The assistant asked him his security questions and then for his card number and expiry date. Patiently, he responded and waited for his details to flash up on her computer screen. Then something truly unusual happened. They had no record of him, his card, or any of his details. It wasn’t possible. He had banked with the same institution for years. His company paid his salary into it, and all his direct debits were taken from this account. There had to be a mistake; there just had to be. Out of politeness and courtesy, the operator checked again, but it was the same as before. There was no record of Matlock ever having any dealings with this bank. But he had the cards in front of him which said otherwise. He would go into his local branch on Monday and sort it out then. In the meantime, he would have to use his cash reserves or borrow money from his friends. He had arranged to meet these friends that evening for their regular Saturday night drinking session. Boy, wait until he told them about this. What a day this was turning out to be. But the shocks were not yet over for Matlock. What had happened earlier was just the prelude.

His friends were already seated at their usual table when he arrived. He noticed something odd straight away when he entered the bar. They must have seen him coming in, but did not acknowledge his approaching presence. There was no customary wave, nor any shouted greeting, nothing. Also, there was no chair for him. Pulling one over from the next table, he made to join them. Jim Ferrier, Matlock’s closest friend, turned curiously toward him, asking him what he was doing. Matlock had already had a fretful day and could not be bothered to play along with one of their childish pranks. He just wanted a few drinks, some friendly company, and irreverent banter. But Jim wasn’t kidding. Things started to get really serious when his other friends also asked him why he was sitting with them? Did they know him? Who was he? No, this couldn’t be happening. But this wasn’t a joke, sick or otherwise. These guys, friends he had known for years, really did not recognize him. And then they got aggressive, told him to leave their table. He pleaded with them, begged them to remember who he was. He was Matlock Evans, their friend. Either he was drunk, drugged, or clinically insane. Turning to Ferrier, Matlock blurted out something he shouldn’t have, even in his distressed state. But he was desperate, desperate enough to forget about discretion.

He told Jim he knew about Chrissy, who she was, and what they, what he had done. No one was supposed to know about this. It was their secret, known only to the two of them. Ferrier dragged Matlock by his collar out of the bar. How could he, a stranger, know that Chrissy, Jim’s secret girlfriend, had had a termination? None of his friends knew about her. She was his ‘bit on the side’ and would do things and let him do things to her that Sandra would not. Chrissie had sworn to Jim that she would never tell a soul. And yet, here he was, this stranger, fully acquainted with their most intimate details. Yes, Matlock agreed; Jim had never revealed their secret to anyone, except him, Matlock Evans, his closest and best friend. Whoever this guy was, he had no business knowing what he did. Ferrier pushed Matlock away, promising to do bad things to him if he ever showed his face again.

It was still early enough. Matlock thought he might catch her before she met with her friends. Not Chrissy, but his own girlfriend, Amanda. He did not want to take the risk of phoning her, so he drove to her house on the outskirts of the city. A bigger shock than even his earlier encounter was waiting for him. It was not Amanda who opened the door, but a man. He was around the same age as Matlock but considerably better built, taller, and more muscular. This was a fellow who could take care of himself in a clinch, thought Matlock. Both men regarded each other warily, and Matlock stood nonplussed, unsure what to do or what to say. As he was contemplating his next move, Amanda herself came to stand behind the larger man. Stammering a response, Matlock asked if he could have a quick word with her. No, he could not, the man said, before slamming the door firmly in Matlock’s face. For just the fraction of a second, Matlock saw or thought he saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes, but then it was gone. Another dead end. Whoever Amanda might have been, she was no longer his girlfriend. If she had ever been.

It was getting late now, but he had to keep going. There had to be someone out there who knew him, who remembered him. His brother, Duncan. Duncan lived about forty miles away. It would be past the time anyone would normally visit, but this was an emergency. He was going out of his mind. It couldn’t wait until tomorrow. No, he had to do this tonight, whatever happened. It was dark when he arrived at Duncan’s home, banging on the door, shouting for him to come. It was a bemused and frightened male in his late thirties who finally answered without opening the outer screen security barrier. From behind his front door, Duncan called out to the man to leave, or he would call the police. But Matlock persisted. He had to; he was running out of options. It was Matlock, his brother, he shouted. Duncan replied from the other side of the door that he didn’t have a brother, that this man, whoever he was, must have the wrong house. Matlock carried on, now expecting this response. He told his older brother of the scar on his left thigh, a legacy from falling off a tree when they were both children. A scar no one without an intimate knowledge of his brother would be aware. Tentatively, Duncan opened the door, more so out of morbid curiosity than a desire to help this stranger. Matlock knew he would only have a few seconds to state his case before this door, too, would be shut against him. He told Duncan details only someone with an in-depth knowledge of their family would know. The drunk driver uncle who had spent time in prison for the accident which left a little girl crippled for life. Their father’s bankruptcy which was due to some bad investments when they were teenagers. Everything he could think of. These revelations got him inside the door, but only just. Duncan did not know who this man was and would not allow a stranger to enter his home proper. Not yet. But Matlock had at least said enough to make Duncan curious. Curious enough to want to hear more, but from the safety of the hallway.

And so Matlock told his unlikely story, even showing his unknown brother his credit cards, cards which the bank had said were impossible for him to have. Duncan was intrigued but could not explain any of it. Despite everything that Matlock told him about their family, he still insisted that he did not have, had never had, a brother. Had he, Matlock, contacted their parents? No, that was almost his last option, and by now, it would be too late to see them. It would have to wait until tomorrow. Whoever this man was, he was truly distraught. This was certainly not an act. It might be too late to visit them, but not to phone them. Duncan took pity on this poor man, no longer considering him a threat to him or his household. His wife and kids had gone to a movie and would soon be home, but in the meantime, he would try to help him. Duncan advised Matlock it might be better if he called them. Having a son they never knew about might come as a bit of a shock. Dennis Evans said nothing for a few seconds. This couldn’t be happening. It was impossible. He had to have time to think before responding and would need to choose his words carefully. He asked Duncan to hand the phone over to Matlock. With great trepidation, he asked to whom he was speaking. Matlock identified himself. Evans senior asked Matlock when he was born, day, month, and year. It was then that Dennis Evans did something he did not do very often. He lied. No, this man, whoever he was, had no connection to him, none whatsoever. It was now getting late, and the older man excused himself and hung up. Then he broke down and wept. How could he tell this strange man over such an impersonal instrument that he and his wife Claire would have had another son, born on the same day as this person, had he not died at birth? A son they were going to call Matlock, after Claire’s mother’s maiden name. They buried the baby’s memory with the baby himself. They would not discuss this episode with anyone, ever. They would keep no mementos, no souvenirs, nothing. It was as if Matlock had never existed. Dennis Evans did not know what had just happened, but one thing he did know for sure. He would never, must never, tell Claire. They had spent the last twenty-eight years learning to live without him. They would continue to do so. It would be better for all concerned. Matlock thanked Duncan, the brother he never had, and left.

He drove into the night, only semi-aware of the direction he was taking. Somehow, he reached his home, his place of refuge, only to find that his key no longer fitted the lock. He hammered futilely at the door, not knowing who or what would appear. It was in the early hours of the morning now, and Matlock desperately needed to sleep. Maybe this was a nightmare, and all he had to do was to wake up. Then it would all be over. But he had to sleep in his bed. Where else could he go? He had no money left for accommodation, and his fuel was running low. After a few minutes, a light appeared from upstairs. It was coming from his bedroom window, but was it still his bedroom? A female voice called out, asking who it was. Matlock was out of options and out of hope. What else was there? He stood where he was, not knowing or caring what happened next. Maybe whoever it was would call for the police. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad thing if she did. At least he would have a bed for the night. The door opened a fraction, just enough for Matlock to see part of a young woman’s face. It wasn’t much, but somehow Matlock felt sure he had seen her before, somewhere, and quite recently. Perhaps if she cracked it apart just a little more, he might recognize her. As if reading his thoughts, she pulled the door, not even aware of why she was doing so. It was a stupid and dangerous thing to do so late at night. Yes, she was familiar to him, but from where? He apologized for disturbing her so late and tried to assure her that he meant no harm. He told her his name in the vain hope that she, at least, might remember him. But she did not. The Department Head of one of the most prestigious recruitment companies in the city closed the door on him. He turned away, still sure in his mind that he had met her before. If only his mind were fresher, more alert…

And as he turned away from her door, he began to dissolve, to lose visibility, to merge and blend into the night sky around him. To become nothing. As if he had never lived. As if he had never been born… if only his mind were fresher, more alert, he would have recalled her in those final few seconds remaining to him. Where he had seen her before. In the world he inhabited just before today began. In the world of yesterday. In the world where he was still the up-and-coming young executive who had just landed the largest contract his company had ever won. To recruit, arrange and manage all the personnel requirements of a major hydraulics company. Over three-hundred-and-fifty people. To celebrate his good work, his senior managers took him out on the Friday after work. There was only one condition. He was not to put his hand in his pocket all night. They would pay for everything – the food, the drinks, even the women should he be so inclined. He did not take them up on that offer, but he did get drunk. Very drunk.

At some point in the evening, he staggered outside to get some air. They wouldn’t miss him, not for a few minutes. Hell, they were even drunker than he was. It was while he was trying to gather his thoughts that he saw her. She was sitting a few feet away, her back against the wall, knees up at her chin. Wearing clothes that had seen better days, torn, ragged, and dirty. She looked as if she could do with a good wash and a good feed. She saw him, looked at him plaintively. There was a wistful look in her eyes, a look that begged for something, anything, whatever he could spare. Any loose change he could put into the fast-food polystyrene cup she was clutching. But he was drunk, not himself. Rather than take pity on her, he turned away in disgust, contempt seething from his very pores. He had made something of his life. Why hadn’t she?

Only later, when he was sobering up, did he remember what he did, what he felt. And he was ashamed. This was not him. It was someone else. He was a good guy, thankful for what he had, what he was given. Maybe she never had the chances he did, the luck he had. He would make it up to her. By God, he would. He would buy her a meal. If she were homeless, he would make sure she got a bed for the night. For at least one night, she would sleep safely. He went outside again, but she was gone. As if she never existed. He began to sob, and it wasn’t just the alcohol in him. He felt truly remorseful for what he had done and for what he hadn’t done. He prayed to his God to forgive him, but it was not enough. Not when he saw in his mind the look of utter hopelessness and despair in that poor girl’s eyes. No, it was not enough merely to wish for forgiveness. In his profound state of contrition, he wished for more than absolution. He wished he had never been born, never existed. And God heard his cries. And God, The Almighty, in His infinite wisdom, took pity on His poor sinner and accepted his prayers.

The End

The Outdoor Life

There were a dozen of them, hardy types who loved The Great Outdoors. Most holidays and weekends, you would see some of them out in the forests hunting wild animals, usually legally in season, but occasionally when they weren’t supposed to, either. Pretty much anything with more than two legs was, literally, fair game. Those that didn’t go after wild prey might be kayaking down some fast-flowing river with their life-vests tightly fastened around them. They would be enjoying the water spray jetting onto their grim but smiling faces, protected beneath the obligatory safety helmets. They might be daring, but they weren’t stupid. They had heard too many stories of boats overturning, with the occupants’ bare heads smashing off rocks just below the surface.

Others still might prefer more leisurely outdoor pursuits. Maybe standing by the banks of a peaceful river, casting their lines, hoping the fish were biting that day. Whether they were or they weren’t didn’t much matter. These weekend fishermen would have their lunch safely packed in waterproof paper inside plastic containers. A flask of tea or coffee (or maybe something stronger) would complement their al fresco meal.

The real hardy ones, well, none of these pursuits were exciting enough for them. No, they needed real thrills, exhilarating, heady, even dangerous, and to the bravest of these, the more adventurous, the better. One of these extreme and hardy souls was Craig. Not for him the casual and peaceful pastime of fly-fishing, or the unequal match between armed hunter and unarmed beast, or even the thrills of white water rafting. No, these were all too tame for the likes of him. What really got him going was mountain climbing. That was where the true outdoorsman and woman were at one with nature in all her splendid majesty. Facing danger as they climbed up sheer, almost vertical rock surfaces, pitting their wits against whatever unknown hazards the mountain might throw at them. One false step could see them hurtling hundreds, maybe thousands of feet down to certain destruction, their bodies either being torn apart by jagged, rocky outcrops on the way down or landing with unbelievable force on the ground below. Every bone in their body smashed almost to smithereens. Death would be but a glorious instant of unimaginable pain.

Three weeks earlier, Craig and the other eleven strangers with him had each received a letter. The letter was unstamped and had been left in his letterbox. All the other recipients had similarly received theirs. The envelope was handwritten in capital letters with their names and addresses, including their zip codes. Inside was a single sheet of lined paper, again handwritten, inviting each of them to an ‘adventure vacation’ all expenses paid. The envelope also contained bus, rail, and even plane tickets, depending on how far each of them had to travel. The writer had already taken care of their accommodation and everything else, the letter said. All they had to do was to turn up on the necessary day and time. They didn’t even need to bring any outdoor gear. All would be provided. The letter promised them the experience of a lifetime. The only thing missing was the name of their mysterious benefactor. The message was not signed.

It seemed too good to be true. They all wondered who would be wealthy enough to offer them a prize like this and why did they wish to remain anonymous? It all seemed very strange, but what had they got to lose? Their fares, and if it was to be believed, all their other expenses had already been covered. Even if it was all a gigantic hoax, well, at least they would get to see a bit of the country. The letter promised them plenty of opportunities to pursue their particular outdoor pleasure. There did not seem to be any conditions or provisos attached. Although skeptical, some highly, none declined the strange offer.

And now, here they were, three weeks later, standing outside the lodge. It was a big Swiss chalet-style building and looked as if it could accommodate several hundred holidaymakers. Despite its size and potential, it seemed as if they were the only ones there. Surely their host hadn’t booked out the rest of the rooms so they could have the place all to themselves, could he? Or she? Or they? The outer doors to the chalet were closed but unlocked. They opened easily when Craig tried the handles, and one by one, they all trooped inside. There was a long reception desk facing them as they entered, but no reception clerk behind it. Instead, all laid out in a line on the desktop were twelve room keys, each attached with their respective name. The mountain climber shouted for attention, but his calls only echoed eerily throughout the seemingly otherwise deserted property. They each took their assigned key and headed up the stairs to their designated room. Although some had traveled quite a distance, no one felt hungry. Somehow, they had lost their appetite and were beginning to wonder if they had made a mistake in accepting the invitation.

Later on, all decked out in their particular sportswear, they congregated in the reception area, which was still devoid of staff members. Now things were really beginning to get a little hairy and scary. Each guest had their leisure equipment with them, but no one to show them where to go. There weren’t even any chalet maps of the grounds. They shuffled outside, having nothing better to do. Looking around, the hunters spotted a stag and decided to go after it. Well, it was supposed to be an outdoorsman’s place. Why not? They followed its trail and were soon lost in the woods surrounding the building. A few minutes later, the rest of the assembly could hear rifle shots. They had found their quarry.

Strolling around to the rear of the chalet, the fishermen found a quiet stream with what looked like carp and catfish swimming just below the surface. They attached lures to the ends of their lines and cast off, slowly whiplashing their rod’s thin, taut, nylon strings into the calm waters. In a short while, they wouldn’t have to rely on the hotel’s restaurant. They would soon get a wood fire burning and have all the fish they wanted.

Meanwhile, some more of the newcomers came across canoes and paddles with life vests and helmets. A mere few yards away, a river was quickly flowing downstream, its bubbling white foam all the invitation the kayakers needed. In next to no time, they had carried the small craft over to the swollen waters and set off in pursuit of adventure. This just left Craig. At first, he didn’t see signs of anywhere he could ply his climbing skills. But almost as if by merely willing it to happen, a vertical cliff face appeared in the not-too-distant landscape. Making his way towards his goal, vague memories began to come uneasily into his mind. At the beginning, they were too nebulous to bring into focus, but the nearer he got to his objective, the sharper they became. It was something to do with a woman. That much was clear, but what was it? Something told him it was not good. No, it was she who was no good. It was all starting to come back to him, slowly and inexorably. He could see her now in his mind, laughing at him, scoffing at his innocence and his naïvety. How did he think she had obtained the money for their last holiday? She didn’t work, hadn’t had a job in years. Did he believe a rich aunt had really left her a legacy? Honestly? Yes, honestly. That was a word that Gabby didn’t seem to recognize. The jewelry, the clothes, where did he assume she had got it all from? Santa Claus? The Tooth Fairy? She might not have had a job, but she worked damn hard all the same. When he was out, earning a meager honest living as a shoe salesman, she was prowling the streets, looking for open windows or parcels left unattended at front doors. Old men and women, trusting her because she was a woman, letting her escort them home. Then ransacking their bedrooms or anywhere they could have sellable goods, or even better, cash. It mattered not to her that the items she stole might have sentimental rather than financial value. If she could turn a profit on them, that was all that she cared about. The suffering and heartache the elderly experienced by the loss of their prized possessions meant nothing to her. Her moral compass had drifted out beyond recall or redemption.

Even that, he might have lived with, might have found a reason to forgive her, might have told her to stop now, and they could start over. Put it all behind them if she promised to change, promised to lead a decent, respectable life. He loved her. God knew he truly loved her, but what he could not abide was the taunting. The derision at his guilelessness. He was the antithesis of her. How could he not have seen her for what she truly was? An evil, uncaring, heartless, and cruel monster. What made it even worse was that this beast inhabited the body of an angel. Her petite, slim, lithe figure, her naturally blonde hair, her pale blue innocent, childlike eyes all hid the true nature of this awful, despicable woman, his woman, his wife. Even as he lifted the brass candlestick, one she had no doubt stolen from some poor old soul, she did not believe he would have the guts to carry through with his overt threat. So sure was she of his reluctance to use it on her that she scornfully turned her back on him. He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to stop her before she could ruin any more lives. Almost as if he was watching himself from above, he brought the ornament down on her exposed head. It was the most satisfying sound he had ever heard, the sound of brass hitting bone, smacking her skull, breaking it open. He didn’t know what was more gratifying, the dull resonance of the impact or the surprised look on her astonished face as she fell lifeless to the floor. Her life’s blood slowly oozed onto the carpet. But all feelings, all empathy towards her, had gone out, like a flame being extinguished in the stolen candlestick he was still holding. The strange thing was that Craig had forgotten all about the letter which summoned them there. It was as if it had never been written. Now that he thought about it, he could not remember the circumstances that had brought him to where he was. The funny thing was, it did not seem to matter. Being here, in this place, was all that was important. As if he was meant to be right where he was

From his vantage point on the cliff face, he could see the rest of his fellow travelers below. The fishermen were still casting their rods, but they would never lure any fish onto their lines no matter how long they stood on the riverbank. Likewise, the hunters chasing their game; despite all being excellent marksmen, somehow, they would never quite hit their target. The stag, the wild hog, the grizzly bear, always just a touch too quick or just making cover as the sportsmen fired at them. The white water rafters, destined to go riding the waves without ever again reaching the shore. And what of Craig himself? As he glanced upwards, towering in front of him was the peak of the mountain. It shouldn’t take him too long to reach the summit, but he would never make it. He was wearing his safety helmet, with his climbing ropes slung diagonally across his body and crampons fitted to his boots. Around his waist were his climbing harness and all the other accouterments he would need, including pitons. Craig would never run out of these, always having at least one or two more to use. He would forever be climbing this impossible rock face. He would be doomed to keep scaling it for all eternity, just as those below him were also fated never quite to achieve their goals. They had arrived at the Place. Neither Heaven nor Hell. Just the Place. This was where those souls were directed who had committed an evil act for a worthy, noble purpose. Their eternal penance was also their ultimate reward. To do the thing they enjoyed doing the most, and to keep doing it forever, over and over, without stopping, without respite, without end…

The End

A Walk In The Park

It’s just past midnight. Lately, I find that I do not want to go to bed. I don’t want to sleep at all and do my best to stay awake. When I do drift off, my dreams are always the same. They are distorted memories of an incident that happened many years ago, but somehow, the older I get, the more recent the event seems to have been. Maybe it’s a sign of age. Or maybe it’s a harbinger of something else… something far more foreboding… Whatever the reason, they are disturbing me more and more, and I fear that I may soon lose more than just my sanity. If I do not set this record down now, very soon, it may be too late.

It was one Saturday night in the autumn of 1972. Some friends and I had spent the evening drinking in a bar before returning to someone’s house to continue our boozing session. We also indulged in other substances, but nothing heavy. If memory serves me correctly, it was Lebanese Gold. So between the alcohol, the hash, and listening to Pink Floyd and Kraftwerk on our host’s record player, we were all pretty well spaced out. Anyway, a while later, one of the group produced a Ouija board. I would swear that I saw no one bringing one in, but it was there, nonetheless. Naturally, in our artificially heightened state of euphoria, we all jumped at the chance to use it.

Before we go any further, I have to tell you something about the room we were in. It was our friend Mark’s bedroom, which did not have a ceiling light. Instead, there were decorative lamps fitted to the two side walls of the room, one set of which was fitted above Mark’s bed headboard. The fourth wall was opposite the door and faced onto the street, so had a window. The window had curtains, but they were still open. The switch which controlled these lights was situated on the wall just inside the door.

As we all sat cross-legged on the floor, somebody (I can’t remember who) opened out the board. Mark had returned from the bathroom with the obligatory glass tumbler. The wall lights weren’t bright and cast just the right ambiance for our foray into the unknown. When you are in your late teens, you think you are invincible, indestructible, and even the supernatural holds no fear. Well, it should have, at least for me. But I’m getting ahead of myself. With our index fingers placed on top of each other, covering the upturned glass base, someone asked the usual question: was anybody there? Immediately, the glass began to race wildly across the board. It stopped at specific letters but was only resting for the merest second, giving us no time to discern its message. At this display of unnatural activity, we all freaked out, pulling our digits from the glass. Two things then happened simultaneously. Firstly, the tumbler went flying across the room, smashing onto the street-facing wall just below the window. Then the wall lights started to flicker crazily for what seemed like hours but was probably no more than a few seconds. They then went out completely, engulfing the room in almost total darkness. This lasted for a few moments before they came back on, but, again, the time seemed to pass far more slowly.

Now, I know what you must be thinking. If I was reading this narrative rather than writing it, I know what I would be thinking. Well, I would be wrong, and so would you. I’ve gone over this scene in my mind many times since that night. I just don’t see how it would be possible for one person, or even a few acting together, to cause a glass tumbler to go flying across a room using only a single finger. There must have been eight or nine feet from between where we were sitting to the far wall. Also, if anyone had tampered with the light switch, I would surely have seen them, as I was seated closest to the door. They couldn’t have reached it from a sitting position, and I most certainly would have noticed anyone standing over me.

You might think this was bizarre enough, but it was only the warm-up act for what was to come later.

By this time, it was around eleven-thirty, maybe slightly after. We were all decided that we had had enough for one night, and perhaps we should be getting home. In those days, none of us drove, so we all had to rely on public transport. Ensuring our friend would be OK until his parents got home, we bade him good night and made our way to our respective bus stops. My best friend at this time was Mike, one of our party. Mike and I had known each other forever, and our friendship had grown into something more like brothers. It was Mike who had introduced me to the delights of pot. Although we lived in different suburbs, we used the same bus from Mark’s house to get to our respective homes. In Mike’s case, the bus would drop him a couple of hundred yards from his apartment building. For me, it would mean getting off the bus a few stops earlier and connecting with a second one.

As we were riding on the first bus, I suddenly realized that I had left it too late to catch my other ride. It would have gone by the time I arrived at the required stop, and this was the last bus of the night. It would have meant a walk of a few miles, probably lasting well over an hour. Then a thought struck me. We were driving past Linn Park, a public park to the south of Glasgow, my home city. This area is quite a large parcel of land, covering four suburbs at its outside periphery and around two hundred acres in size. If I walked through this park, it would bring me out not too far from where I lived. I could probably be in my bed in well under an hour. Quickly saying good night to Mike, I jumped off the bus, crossed the road, climbed the wall, and within a minute or so, I was walking through the unlit park.

When I was about halfway into my journey, I began to feel uneasy, as if someone was watching me. I put this down simply to being in this quiet, lonely place on my own so late at night but comforted myself with the thought that I would soon be home. A couple of minutes later, I could distinctly hear the sound of footsteps some way behind me. Not wishing to turn round to see whoever, or whatever was there, I quickened my pace and strode on. Behind me, those footsteps kept in time with my own. I began to walk faster still, and now the footsteps weren’t just keeping up with mine; they seemed to be getting closer. Steeling myself, I stole a glance behind me but saw nothing. That was when it struck me. Whatever this was, it wasn’t human. We had somehow disturbed a spirit, most likely an evil one, when we played with the Ouija board. Was this creature now out for revenge, and was I to be its first victim? I began to scream as I ran, for I was now running, running for my life! Although I couldn’t see it, I knew it was still behind me, gaining on me with every step, and it would not be long before it reached me, overcame me, tore me to shreds. It would remain invisible until it revealed itself to me before engulfing me and sending me into oblivion. Why I screamed, I do not know. The nearest houses would have been several hundred yards away, well out of earshot. I can only put it down to the human condition. To cry for help, even when none would be forthcoming. At least I was doing something, as useless as it was. As I ran, I remember feeling that stitch in my side when your body is telling you to slow down. Far from slackening my pace, I raced on, somehow overcoming my pain barrier. I could now feel its hot stinking breath on the back of my neck and knew it could only be a few short seconds before it had me. Perhaps it was only playing with me now, lulling me into believing I had a chance of escape when there was none. I was sure I could feel its mewling paw hovering just above my shoulder, ready to strike.

It was then I saw the park gates, and with reserves of energy I never knew I possessed, threw myself forward. With this renewed vigor, I reached the wrought iron railings and scaled them before dropping exhausted onto the other side. As I landed, I noticed an old man walking his dog. I assumed he was aged as he was stooping the way many older adults do. I yelled at him, shouting to him, asking him if it was still behind me. To this day, I bitterly regret the distress and alarm I must have caused him. I can only imagine what he must have thought as he saw this disheveled teenager running wildly towards him. He recoiled from me, logically assuming I was going to attack him. I think he quickly realized, however, that I was the one who was in terror. Peering cautiously behind me, he slowly shook his head. Well, he obviously couldn’t see anything. But maybe this entity had the power only to allow those to see it who it was going to destroy. Somehow encouraged by this man’s presence, I risked tentatively looking around but, like him, could see nothing.

It was then that I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders, and I instinctively knew that I was safe. I was slowly calming down and could feel my adrenalin levels returning to normal. The old man was very kind, despite the fear I must have instilled in him. I did not want to alarm him anymore by relating what had just happened. After apologizing and thanking him once more, I set off on the final leg of my journey. As I was heading towards home, I replayed the events of what had happened in my mind. Had these things occurred? Or had it been…? Of course, what was I thinking about? Copious amounts of alcohol, followed by a couple of marijuana joints, listening to Ummagumma, and all the weird Kraftwerk music? No wonder my mind went into overdrive. It had been my imagination. The footsteps had been my own, echoing in the virtually empty and quiet park and magnified by my irrationality. The rest, all down to hallucination caused by the hash. Thank goodness. Problem solved. What an idiot I had been. Wait until I tell Mike about this, I thought. He’ll never let me live it down.

It took me a while to get to sleep, but I must have done so because I remember waking up around ten-thirty the next morning. My mother had gone to bed much earlier but had heard me coming in. Due to the lateness of the hour I got home, she didn’t disturb me. After breakfast (or was it brunch? I can’t remember), I phoned Mike. I related the previous night's events, fully expecting him to ridicule me and call me all the disparaging names he could think of. I even held the phone away from my ear in anticipation of what he would do, his raucous laughter echoing down the line. But there was nothing. He remained silent for so long, I thought he’d hung up, or we’d been disconnected. Eventually, he responded but not in the way I anticipated. He asked me if everything I had told him had been Gospel truth. When I promised that it had, he breathed in heavily, then whispered so low I could hardly hear him. What he uttered next absolutely floored me. As he had done before me, I asked him to swear that he was not lying to me, although I believed he had not been. We had been friends for so long we knew when either of us wasn’t being honest with each other. And he was telling the truth now. It was in his voice.

He explained that when he got off the bus, he had an uneasy feeling that someone was behind him. Unlike me, he did turn round immediately, ready to confront whoever had been there. Like me, he saw no one. As he continued his walk home, this sense of being watched not only lingered but seemed to get stronger. Just as he approached the entrance to his tenement building, he turned around once again. It was then he saw it. He saw it! For the most fleeting of moments, it was looking at him, grinning, gloating, slowly nodding its horrible, scaly head. Mike estimated it stood almost ten feet tall, with bulging red eyes largely out of proportion to the rest of its face. When it opened its mouth, he could see fangs, huge, white, and sharp, with saliva dripping from its lips. It was green-skinned, naked, but did not seem to have genitals. Terrified, Mike ran in to his apartment block, sure that the abomination would follow. But it didn’t. He looked out of his window but could not see anything. Whatever it was, it appeared to have gone.

For many years afterward, I continued to quiz Mike on this, but never once did he change his story. He once even swore on a bible that what he had revealed to me that morning was the absolute truth. He eventually drew an image of what he had seen, and it was then that I knew without any doubt, he was not lying. Although I never saw the beast, while I was fleeing from it, images kept running through my head, images of what I was escaping from. Those images were identical to the picture Mike drew for me. Did any of this really happen, or was it all just a massive coincidence? After all, Mike, too, had had a lot to drink and also smoked hash that night. Had we both imagined the same monster? Or did we all somehow unleash a supernatural force?

Mike and I discussed the idea of asking the others who were there if any of them had witnessed or sensed anything unusual that night. We reasoned that if they had, they would surely have shared their experience with us. If they had not, then what would they think of us? We decided that it would be best if we kept these strange details to ourselves. And that is what we did. Sadly, Mike is no longer with us, so he cannot corroborate my tale. I should say that he died from natural causes, pancreatic cancer, I believe. The truth is, Mike saw what he saw. He never wavered from his beliefs, and neither have I. That is why I am committing these memories to paper now. Recently I have had the feeling that I am being watched, that some unseen presence is stalking me. Like it did on that night. I find it difficult to sleep when I turn in, and I am spending more of my waking moments dreading what might be waiting for me around the next corner or in the next room. I no longer go out on my own, even during the daytime. My one overriding fear is that whatever this thing is, it might just be returning to finish what it started, what we all started, that autumn night back in 1972.

The End

The Girl Across the Road

Cahal Milroy was a priest. He was an excellent priest; in fact, being a priest was all he ever wanted to do. His uncle, three of his cousins, and an older brother were all men of the cloth, so it was no surprise when Cahal announced his intention to join the seminary. Had he not decided to take Holy Orders, there is no doubt he would have married and had a family. Not only was he strikingly handsome, athletic, and tall, but he also had a personality second to none, and not a few girls had been sorry the day he left home to start his training. He had gained a Bachelor's degree in theology, and he felt that each lecture session brought him closer to God and his eventual calling. Although rightly proud that another one of her family was going to be ordained, his mother also believed it was her duty to point out to him the vows of celibacy incumbent on every priest. She wondered if her youngest son would be able to fulfill the obligations which his new life would demand. Or would he regret his decision to forsake the institutions taken so much for granted by his friends and other family members? His mother need not have worried.

After completing his training, and going through the necessary protocols of becoming a deacon and accompanying ordained priests in their ministry duties, Cahal was given his first diocese. It was in a parish not far from his parents' home. No one could have been prouder of her son than Ethel Milroy. She sat in the second-to-front pew and watched with awe as Cahal led the Sunday morning Mass with a profound devotion she had not witnessed in priests much older than him. Although he could have stayed at home, Cahal decided to live apart from his parents. He was a grown man now, with an important job to do. Except it was not a job; it was a vocation that would need all his attention, without the distraction of the everyday problems and issues every family must face. He chose to live in the Rectory House, attached to the parish church. Although the house could accommodate several people, Cahal found himself the only occupant, one of the former residents having died and the other opting to retire and move away.

A few weeks after he had settled into his new home, he was sitting by the front window reading when he noticed a woman going into the house opposite. The house had lain empty for some time, and Cahal was pleased to see it was being used once more. He judged the woman to about the same age as him, with long mousey-brown hair tied up into a ponytail. She reminded him of the girls he had gone to school with, who had their hair done up in the same fashion. The more he saw her, the more familiar she looked, and Cahal began to wonder if she was, in fact, a fellow student from his younger days. Eventually, his innate curiosity got the better of him, and he determined to discover if she was, indeed, someone from his teenage past. Parish duties kept him busy for the next couple of weeks, but eventually, he found time in his busy schedule to address his latent curiosity. Although bound by the precedents and customs of his calling, he still wanted to look his best for his meeting with this unknown woman. But was she really not known to him, or could she actually be an old acquaintance? He would find out shortly.

Summoning all his nerve, he strode purposefully across the street. Then he hesitated. What on earth was he doing? He was standing outside a strange woman's front door, about to confront her with a lame excuse that she may or may not have been someone he once knew. If she were a friend from the past, surely he would remember her with more clarity than he did. If he imagined the whole thing, how foolish would he look to her? He was a priest, for goodness sake! He had some standing in the community, someone who was admired and respected. How would his reputation look if he was found to be accosting a strange woman on her own doorstep? He faltered as he was about to ring her doorbell. As he stood there undecided, his next actions were resolved for him, as the woman herself opened the door. It would have been hard to determine who was the more surprised of the two.

Unprepared to find anyone on the other side of the door, the woman emitted an involuntary gasp of fear before slamming the door closed. Cahal, too, was in a state of alarm. What was he to do now? Should he press her doorbell, and stammer some sort of explanation, or would the best course of action simply be to remove himself from her doorstep as quickly as possible? No. That was the act of a coward, and besides, by taking this course of action, would make him look guilty of… well, guilty of something, although he was not quite sure of what? While he was debating with himself, the woman opened the door again, just by a fraction. From behind it, she asked him who he was and what he was doing there. Cahal breathed heavily before replying. This was it. There was no going back now. Hesitantly he apologized for startling her. He introduced himself and explained the purpose of his visit. The woman pulled the door open some more to better regard her strange visitor. Well, he was certainly wearing a dog-collar, but he was so… so handsome. She had never seen such a good-looking priest. And then she recognized him. It was the minister from the parish house across the road. She had seen him from a distance a few times as he was leaving the property.

Forgetting her earlier reticence, she smiled as she opened the door wider, inviting him to enter. Apologizing once more for alarming her, he followed her into her lounge. The room was sparsely furnished, with only two easy chairs and a small coffee table between them making up the complement of the room's furniture. There was no sign of a television, or even of any books or magazines. Likewise, the walls, too, were bare and devoid of any artwork or mirrors. Noticing his awareness of the lack of furnishings, she explained that she had not yet had the opportunity to go out and shop for more room accessories. The woman motioned for him to sit in one of the two matching floral armchairs while she took the other. Making himself comfortable, Cahal took stock of the woman sitting in front of him. There wasn’t really very much to take stock of. She was wearing a drab, plain brown, knee-length dress, fastened around her waist with a matching thin leather belt. Pink, flat pumps on un-stockinged feet completed her ensemble. She was still curious about the reason for his visit, and he wasted little time on further formalities. Had she, indeed, been someone he had known a long time ago? He repeated his name and where he had studied. She was sure, she replied, that it would not be hard for her to remember someone so attractive, but no, he was not familiar to her at all.

They sat chatting for another few minutes, then Cahal excused himself, explaining he had some church business to attend to. He hoped that they might meet again, as he enjoyed their talk, and would like to have got to know her better. As he rose to leave, the woman leaned over, grasping his forearm. Almost pleading with him, she asked him to stay. He could read it in her eyes, the longing, the yearning for him to remain, even for a little while longer. As he hesitated, she offered to make them some tea. Quickly considering what he had to do once he left her, he decided nothing would be lost by spending another half-hour or so in the woman's company. She was obviously very lonely, and was cherishing his unannounced intrusion. The priest followed her into the kitchen, standing behind her while she boiled the kettle and prepared the cups. He found himself edging closer to her than he had intended, drinking in the enticing fragrance of her hair, the nape of her exposed neck, and her slim, lithe body in front of him, swaying slightly from her shapely hips. His desire for her was increasing subconsciously within him.

Sensing him close behind her, the woman turned slowly, glancing up lovingly into Cahal's bemused face. She cupped her hands around his cheeks, drawing him closer towards her. For a few short, captivating seconds, he let her pull him into her embrace, hypnotized by her feminine essence. She was leading him out of the kitchen, tea now forgotten, his vows of celibacy teetering on the brink of being broken. He knew it was wrong, on so many levels, but, oh God, it had been so long, so long since he had held a girl romantically in his arms. He could see the door to her bedroom laying invitingly open, beckoning him through. The bed would be big enough for both of them. It would be so easy to find release in the arms of this enchanting woman. Despite his best efforts, Cahal felt himself becoming aroused by her embrace as she led him through the doorway. Without seeming to realize what he was doing, Cahal found himself stroking her hair, caressing her face, allowing his hand to slip slowly further down her body. She responded to his touch by brushing her lips gently across his face. The woman smiled as he fumbled at the buttons of her frock, his lack of experience at odds with his ardor for her body. They had guided each other to the edge of the bed, her hands now exploring, teasing, arousing his enlarged manhood. Suddenly, as if he had woken from a dream, Cahal looked bewilderingly around him. What was he doing? He was a priest! Such emotions were forbidden to him and could see him expelled from the priesthood. In that moment of clarity, Cahal understood that he had overstepped the bounds of his profession. He had to stop now. This could not, must not, go any further. Oh, God, what had he done? Thankfully he had ceased before he had committed the actual sin. It was bad enough that he should even have contemplated betraying his calling. He pulled himself away from her, aware of the distress he must cause this poor woman. Gently, Cahal leaned forward, all the better to explain to her that he could never be what she wanted him to be. He had taken vows in the sight of the Almighty and his Church. These vows were solemn and inviolate. To transgress them would be to act against the will of his Creator. He reluctantly freed himself from her tender grasp, holding her at arm's length. It would be best for them both if he left now before he could inflict any further harm on this sweet child of God.

As he got up to leave, the left side of his body suddenly went numb, and his chest felt so tight. The pain, oh, Lord Jesus, the excruciating pain, and at that moment, he knew what was happening; he was having a heart attack. He tried to speak, but could not find the strength to formulate any words. The girl was looking at him so serenely, no concern whatsoever, showing on her lovely angelic features. Angelic, that was the exact word he would have used to describe her. At that very instant, it all became so clear, so transparent, that even in his extreme distress, Cahal smiled. He had been tested. God had wanted to see if he would succumb to the sins of the flesh as so many of his colleagues had done, and had sent this girl, this angel, to tempt him. But he had not been found wanting, and had not allowed himself to be consumed by the pleasures he had imagined would await him. The Almighty had looked into his heart and his soul and found him to be pure in spirit. Now, at the moment of his death, he knew that he would be welcomed into Paradise by his Savior, to spend eternity in the service of his Maker.

He felt his body being lifted, weightless, and realized that it was not his body which was being raised, but his immortal soul. He instantly felt himself being drawn upwards, faster and faster, his spiritual essence being pulled through the ceiling, the roof, upwards, into the Infinite. The colors, the hues, the electrifying spectrum of all the shades of the universe, were being revealed to him in their unimaginable celestial glory. And then he saw it. He saw the light. At first, it was but a pinprick in the impossible distance ahead of him, but almost immediately, it began to get larger, brighter, and so inviting. It was drawing him towards it, gently pulling him towards it's warm and heavenly embrace. He so wanted to feel it surround him, engulf him, cocoon him, and the joy he felt at that moment was like nothing he had ever experienced.

As he tumbled into the brightness, he could make out shapes, figures, but they were hazy, shimmering, their arms outstretched as if to welcome him into his eternal home. Gradually, they began to take form, and he knew without knowing that these were people he had loved, and who had loved him, and who had passed over before him. They were now welcoming him to join them and be at one with them, their spirit selves guiding him towards them, and Cahal knew that he would find everlasting peace. And then the fragrance hit his spiritual senses. It was like being in the middle of a thousand rose gardens. He could almost feel the scent imbuing his sense of smell if he still had such an organ. It was the most wonderful odor he could ever imagine, and it was all around him, assailing him, seducing him with its unearthly, divine perfume. Just a few more seconds now, if time as he knew it could still be measured in such meaningless values, and he would be with them forever. Then, he heard it, the singing. It was the most beautiful noise in the cosmos, echoing sublimely all around him. Instinctively, he knew what the sound was. And then he saw them; he saw them. Some were small, naked, cherubic, no taller than children. Other forms rose in a hazy cipher of majestic grandeur, so high they seemed to ascend upwards into the everlasting nothingness of the universe. And they had wings, diaphanous and shimmering in their heavenly translucence. They were angels, singing eternal praise to their Lord and God. It was nothing short of sublime, and their presence seemed to engulf him. His soul was desperate to join them and to share their holy presence. He could really see these beautiful beings, all singing in divine unison. Then it stopped. Everything came to a sudden halt. He was so close to them that he could hear them whispering to him, lovingly, urging him to take that final step, but he could not. He so desperately wanted to, but he felt himself being pulled backward, backward at such frightening speed. He could not turn round, could not see what was behind him, could not discern what he was being catapulted towards. Then the sadness engulfed him, pervaded him, as the realization set in that he was not being granted entry into the Afterlife, but what was happening to him? To where was he being directed? He had been given a glimpse of Paradise; he had seen the World To Come, had witnessed what awaited him at his life's end. Then he saw nothing.

Abruptly, he opened his eyes and found himself on his own bed. He gripped its sides with both hands as if he were having an attack of vertigo. His whole brain tried to refocus, while the room was swimming around him, like a gyroscope spinning on its axis. Slowly, his dizziness subsided, as the room gradually began to slow down, until finally, his equilibrium was restored, and he could start to think rationally again. What had just happened to him? Had it all been a dream, even his visit to the girl's house? And yet, it had all seemed so real. No, it had not just felt real; it was real. It could not have been his imagination. The colors, the sensations, those heavenly beings, the pain, he could not have dreamed all of that. He ran his clammy fingers over his face, his brow, down his cheeks, and could feel tears. He had been crying, and those feelings of despair quickly returned to him but did not last. It was as if his mind was having one final attempt to come to terms with what he had experienced, or thought he had experienced. Had he died for a few seconds, and somehow, miraculously been brought back to life? And how did he get from the house across the road and onto his own bed? Had she somehow, carried him across? But could a mere slip of a girl, manage to handle someone twice her weight. Did she have help? Had he even been there, or was that all part of the dream, the fantasy?

He knew he could not be at peace until he found out the truth of it. Climbing off the bed, he went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face to remove the perspiration and to help clear his head. After drying himself, he walked back across the road with a grim determination to find out what had happened to him. He knocked gently on the door, not wishing to frighten her. He waited a couple of minutes and then rapped again, but once more, there was no answer. As Cahal turned to go, he noticed that the door was ajar. Pushing it open, he called out to her. There was only the sound of his own voice echoing through the house. Cautiously, he crept from room to room, seeking her out. It could not have been that long since he had returned to the parish house. Had she gone out after he had left? Then he saw her. He wished he had not. She was lying on the same bed they had almost shared as lovers, her sightless eyes staring into infinity. There was a look of surprise, horror, and somehow resignation on her lifeless face. The priest could only look dumbfounded at the dreadful spectacle before him. This lovely, angelic woman was dead! And then it all came back to him in a blinding moment of clarity. But before he could even reason out his memory, he felt the constriction across his chest once again. It was getting tighter and tighter, a steel rope being wound around his torso, dragging him down and down. Now, there was only darkness around him, a cloying impenetrable blackness, with horrifying screams emanating all about him, cries of hopeless degradation, and utter despair. And the smell, the overpowering fetid stench of death and decay and corruption. Then even through the eternal midnight, he could see the nightmarish horror and unimaginable beastliness surrounding him. The damned souls of all those who had come to this place before him down through the centuries and millennia. Those doomed to spend the rest of eternity languishing in their own self-made hell. This time there would be no going back. There would be no supernatural force dragging him back to life.

But why was he here? What had he done to cause him to spend forever banished to the underworld with no hope of salvation or redemption? Then he remembered. It was the girl; she would not accept his gentle rejection, his explanation of why he could not be with her in that way, and the way she was desperate for. At first, it was sadness; then it was tears and anger. The anger turned to aggression, which evolved into violence. He only meant to calm her down and placate her, but somehow, things had gotten out of his control. He seemed to black out, operating on blind instinct, not fully aware of his actions. When he finally roused from his dream-state, he saw her lying dead on the bed. He ran from the house, confused and shocked. And that was all he remembered until he awoke sometime later. And now he was here in this place, condemned to spend eternity with the other sinners, but his punishment was not just having to fester in hell until the end of time.

With unimaginable cruelty, the Lord of Darkness himself endowed Cahal with the vision of what he might have had. The magnificent beauty of Heaven in all its everlasting splendor. And Satan had an even greater torture for the former priest. One more exquisite agony. His memory of Paradise would not fade. It would be as clear to him every moment of his eternal stay in this abominable place as it was now. As it would always be...

The End.

One Last Job

Freddie Morton was a career criminal. Now in his late fifties, he had spent well over half his life engaged in illegal enterprises. He had honed his skills through the years, and specialized in housebreaking. Entering residential dwellings by unorthodox means to permanently deprive the householders of their material possessions and hard-earned cash. He had become proficient in quickly appraising the items worth taking and those whose value would not be worth the effort or the risk. It had never bothered him that the valuables he stole might have more worth than mere monetary cost. There may have been a sentimental element to the items that no amount of insurance compensation could cover. Jewelry left by a loved one, precious ornaments, the only remembrance of someone no longer here.

Despite early setbacks, causing him to spend periods in prison, Freddie had not seen the inside of a cell for over twenty years. He had learned long ago from his mistakes to wear face coverings, ski masks, and the like, as well as making sure his hands were always covered. No tell-tale fingermarks would Freddie leave. But in all the years he had plied his trade, he had never, ever used violence. The burglar always ensured that the house was empty, either for the night or, better still, for longer. The hiding of his identity was only a safeguard that had never been necessary. It was all down to the planning. There were no random incursions for him; he would spend days, sometimes weeks, scoping out his target, seeing who came and who went. What time the postman delivered the mail, what day the refuse bins were emptied. Who the frequent and not-so-frequent visitors were. When they arrived and when they left. Would there be a full moon or no moon? What would the weather be like? Freddie was good; Freddie was a professional.

He had made a good living from his nefarious activities but had finally come to terms with the fact that he was not as young as he was, not as agile as he had been. He found it harder to climb up drainpipes when he had to, his fingers not as nimble as they once were, his leg muscles feeling the strain as he scaled the walls. His eyesight, too, was not as keen as it used to be. One slip-up could see it all being taken away from him, causing him to spend his remaining years cooped up behind bars. No, it was now time to sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labors. He had salted away enough to keep him for the rest of his days. Perhaps not in luxury, but neither would he have to worry where his next meal was coming from. Just one last job, then he would stop. He would retire.

It was a Greystone, two-story corner building, with windows facing both streets. The main entrance faced onto a busy thoroughfare, although it would be much quieter at night. The side of the house looked over a much narrower street, with other similar houses on one side only. It was only bush and scrubland on the opposite side of the road. Freddie had been watching the place for the previous two weeks without seeing any signs of life. No lights ever being lit in the evening, no one he could see coming to or leaving the property. No deliveries, no mail, no one taking out the garbage bins. Maybe the house was unoccupied, the former owner having departed, and the new incumbents not yet moved in. But no, it couldn’t be that. He had chanced a peek through the windows and seen that the house was still furnished. Perhaps the owner was away on a long break, visiting relations, or just on an extended vacation. Whatever the reason, Freddie had satisfied himself that the house was empty; definitely empty.

He got there early. It was still light, and he preferred to work in the darkness. Safer all round. It would just be his bad luck that the day he chose to make his unauthorized entrance would be the day that the owners would return. So he waited. Patiently. Until the day merged into twilight before making the final transition to night. Still no sign of anyone. OK, it was time. When he approached the property, he noticed that the downstairs casement window was slightly open. He was sure it had been closed on his earlier visit, but then again, his eyesight might have been playing him tricks. No matter. It would save him a climb. He carefully opened the window a little more, just enough for him to crawl through. Once inside, he allowed his eyes a minute or two to become accustomed to the gloom. He always carried a torch as part of his burglary kit and would switch it on once he was clear of the glass. He did not want any nosy neighbor wondering who would be shining a small light when there was no doubt adequate overhead illumination. Leave nothing to chance. It was an epithet that had served him well down the years.

His eyes had now adjusted to the semi-darkness. Quickly scanning around him, he took stock of the furniture in the room. In the middle of the floor, was a very large oblong oak table with six matching chairs either side, and an even larger one at the top. There was no corresponding chair at the other end. Thirteen chairs. The table was unlaid and bare. There did not appear to be any other moveable furniture. He saw that the wall to his left was lined floor to ceiling with books, thick, hard-bound copies crammed against one another, leaving no room for any additions. An odor came from them, musty, old, decaying, but something else, something his sense of smell could not yet define. The wall to the right was a mirror image of the left. No chance of any valuables being stored there, either. The window from which he had entered took up most of the wall. There was no sideboard, no shelves, no cupboards, no drawers, nothing, Just the window and the bare wall. That only left the wall in front of him. There was a door in the middle, presumably an entrance to other rooms. He would explore them shortly, once he was sure that there was nothing of value where he was. He padded into the center of the room, next to the table, then opened his flashlight, directing the beam towards the wall with the internal doorway.

At first, he did not see anything, anything at all. For a second, it appeared that the door was standing by itself, with nothing on either side. Why would that be, he wondered? It didn’t make any sense. Then the wall appeared to become solid again. But now, the wall was not empty. Above the door sat a grotesque mask with the most frightening features he had ever seen. Slightly larger than a human head, its cox’s hair comb was swept back from its forehead. From the side of its head grew two elongated, pointed ears, with tips so sharp, they looked as if they would cut animal flesh. It showed two disproportionately large, red, glowing almond-shaped eyes, which seemed to be staring not just directly at him, but straight through him. What passed for its nose was a retroussé atrocity, with the outsized nostrils almost reaching back to the eyes. But it was the creature’s mouth that caused Freddie to shrink back in abject terror. The mouth, with its hideously misshapen lips, was moving! Slowly, up and down, up and down, then he saw its tongue. A whiplash of greeny-red muscle, darting in and out between those lips. Savoring him, tasting him. Its mouth then opened wide, displaying a full set of fangs. Every space where a tooth should be was fanged. A mouthful of fangs. Its fleshy face was a deathly pale yellow, reminding Freddie of a cadaver he had once seen in a mortuary. Rigor mortis no longer present, but the final decaying process not yet in evidence. He screamed out in terror. All thoughts of why he had entered this house now vanished. All he wanted to do was to get away from here, as far and as fast as he could. He turned around to escape the way he had come in, but the window was not there. It was as if it had never been there. All he could see was a solid, unbroken wall. The only way for him now to get out of this accursed room was to run forward. He darted through the doorway aperture, underneath the mask, or whatever this unholy thing was. He found himself in an identical room to the one from which he had just fled. Freddie turned around to run back, but the doorway he had run through was no longer there. It, too, was now a solid wall. As before, the wall in front of him was bisected by a door, above which was an identical mask. He ran on and on, through doorway after doorway, each one closing behind him, but above every one was the horrifying mask with its disgusting mewling mouth. He felt as if he had been running for hours, unable to escape whatever this monster was. Every room he arrived in, there it was, staring down at him, licking its lips, waiting, just waiting. He knew now he would never see the outside world again. How could he? He had run so far into this seemingly endless house without any way back. There was no window to climb through, no doorway other than the one in front of him, beckoning him on. Finally, he could run no more. His mind had gone past fear. The terror he once felt had left him to be replaced by a numbing acceptance. Acceptance of his fate.

Freddie now remembered what that smell was, the one he couldn’t place earlier. It was the aroma of cold, wet earth. It was the stench of the grave. The mask now seemed to shimmer, growing larger as it came away from the wall. It was coming towards him until all Freddie saw was its huge maw, growing wider and wider, its mouthful of fangs seemingly about to bite into him. And then he heard it. The cacophony of sound, of discordant harmonies, all clamoring within him. But even through the noise, he could still discern it. It was not only all around him; it was inside his head, inside his mind. It was the voice of Hell. This vile beast was torturing him, tormenting him, making his last moments on earth truly the stuff of nightmares. In his head, the demon told him that he was not going to digest him, not yet. He was taunting him, showing him what would happen next. This man had come to steal from him, but that would not happen. It was he, Freddie, who would be the victim. The fiend was not only going to take his body, but it would also devour his soul. And it came upon him slowly, engulfing him, overcoming him, entering his spirit, making his very essence belong to it. But Freddie never saw any of this, never saw, never felt, because Freddie was already dead.

The End

A Bullet To Remember Me By

He found he was doing it more and more these days, falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon. It’s not as if he was an old man, far from it. Cliff wouldn’t see forty for another year or so, but for the last few months, he got so tired after lunch, he just couldn’t keep his eyes open. He would have to go to his doctor, see if he could get a pick-me-up. It wasn’t right, not natural for a man his age to flake out this early in the day – something else to add onto his ‘to-do’ list. Especially when he had his young son to pick up from elementary school. His son. Christ! Was that the time? He was going to be late.

Racing out of his house, he gunned his car into life and roared off down the street. Had he remembered to lock the door? He couldn’t remember, and he didn’t care. Ricky, his precious little boy, was his first and only priority. And there wasn’t much worth stealing anyway, if truth be told. Nothing that he couldn’t replace. It was only a mile or so to the school. The drive shouldn’t have taken any more than ten minutes at the outside, but for the car accident. Two cars coming from opposite directions, both turning left at the same time at the narrow intersection, neither driver willing to give way to the other. What were these morons thinking? And now here they both were, outside their cars, pointing and gesturing wildly, vying for the other’s attention, shouting over each other, their voices rising octave by octave. Would these jerks never learn? By trying to shave a couple of seconds off their journey, they were now causing unnecessary delays not only to themselves but, more importantly, to him. There was nothing else for it. He’d have to cut down the street to the left in front of him. It would add an extra five, maybe six minutes to his journey time, but he certainly wasn’t going to wait around for these two idiots to sort things out and move their vehicles.

By the time he got to the school gates, most of the kids had gone. Either already heading home or being driven away as he arrived. To the few who were still there, Cliff beseeched them desperately. Did they know little Ricky, his son? If so, had they seen him? Where was he? Where did he go? He only received blank stares and sympathetic nods of the heads from the other adults. They could all tell he was in a state of distress bordering on outright hysteria, but nobody seemed willing or able to help him. Cliff waited anxiously by his vehicle for a couple of minutes but saw no sign of Ricky. He got out of his car and looked around for his boy, or at least for someone else he could ask. He had always told his son, had drummed into him, if his dad were late, he wouldn’t be too far away. Just remain where he was, and if possible, ask a teacher to stay with him.

Running into the building, he soon found Ricky’s classroom, but it was empty as he dreaded it would be. This was his worst nightmare, a nightmare that was becoming a horrifying reality. His previous job required a great deal of level-headedness. Never assume the worst; that was one sure way for the worst to happen. Think rationally; where might he be? Could Cliff have missed him? Might he still be outside waiting for his father? He would see the car and stand by it, knowing Cliff would not be too far away. Where were the staff, anyway? They all couldn’t have left the building already. Finally he found a couple of teachers he did not recognize and gasped out his concerns. Neither had been at the school very long and did not yet know all the pupils. They were very sorry, they said, but did not know his son. They tried their best to reassure him, Ricky would be fine, they promised him, but he was too distraught to listen to their words of hope.

Wait. Maybe he was in the principal’s office. Perhaps he had committed some minor misdemeanor, some school infraction, and was sent to detention. They should have phoned him to let him know, but possibly he had already left. He searched his pockets; no cell phone. Well, that was something else for the burglars to take, he supposed. Cliff found the principal’s office, but it, too, was deserted. There was no sign of any cleaners, but then a fellow wearing blue overalls, toting a bucket, passed him, eyeing him warily. The man in work-clothes regarded Cliff with some suspicion, but before either could engage in conversation, Cliff saw someone down the hallway, a little boy who looked just like Ricky. Without waiting to speak to the janitor, Cliff ran as fast as he could in the direction where he had seen the child. When he caught up with the boy, he was with another adult. No, this wasn’t Ricky, either. He ran back the way he had come, but whoever the man in blue skivvies was, he was gone.

Why were there so few people around? Of course, it was Friday afternoon. The start of the long holiday weekend. Everybody would want to get home as quickly as possible to their families and loved ones. So did he. But he couldn’t. Not without Ricky. He darted outside, hoping against hope that he was there, that he would be waiting by the car, but his little boy wasn’t. Cliff called his name, shouted it as loud as he could, but to no avail. He went back into the school, searched through every classroom, every cupboard, he went to the kitchen, the restrooms, even the girls’ toilets. He ran all around the school, yelling his name, over and over. Ricky didn’t respond. His child had gone. His child had gone! Was it possible that someone, the parents of one of his friends, had given Ricky a lift home? Yes, that was it. That had to be it. His son would be sitting outside his house, in his friend’s parents’ car waiting for Cliff to arrive.

The cars from the earlier crash had now gone, neither being damaged too badly. It was mostly just a fender bender issue and some lost pride on both sides. Why was he even thinking about this? He should be concentrating on his son, nothing else. He pulled into the driveway, but there was no sign of Ricky or any other car nearby. The front door was unlocked. Maybe he had come home and would be waiting for him inside, with his customary after-school glass of milk and cookie in his grubby little hands. Cliff ran from room to room, calling Ricky’s name, but it was only his own voice that echoed back at him. Mocking him, taunting him. And Junie. What would he say to her? How was he going to break the news? How was he going to tell her that her darling little boy was missing and that it was all his fault? Their marriage was at the edge of a rocky precipice as it was. This could push both of them over the top. If anything had happened to Ricky, she would never forgive him. And how could he possibly blame her?

The police, he would have to phone the police right away. He knew that in the past, they didn’t consider a kid who had been missing for only an hour or two top priority. But things were changing, ever since the spate of child abductions last year. Now, they followed up every report, mainly to cover their own asses, but Cliff didn’t care why. As long as they did something, anything. As long as they did their Goddamned job. He grabbed the phone and was about to dial the number. Then he stopped. Surely his son’s disappearance would be taken more seriously if he reported it in person. What sort of parent phones in about a missing child? You go down to the precinct and file a proper missing person report, that’s what you do. You want to give them all the details yourself; you want to look into their eyes and see the concern on their faces. You want to convince yourself that they won’t just fob you off as some neurotic father with too much time on his hands. The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that this was the course of action he had to take. Grabbing his car keys from the coffee table, he opened the front door. And that was when he saw it.

He was almost positive it hadn’t been there when he got back a few minutes ago, but it was there now. A small brown cardboard box, sealed with clear adhesive tape, and addressed to him. What was this? And who could have left it there? He glanced cautiously from side to side but didn’t see anybody, and certainly no one acting suspiciously. He bent down to retrieve it and brought it into the house. With fear approaching outright terror, he gingerly slit open the tape, opening the flaps to reveal a gun. It was a six-chambered Smith and Wesson revolver. He handled it carefully, and, turning it around, noticed almost immediately that all the gun’s identifying marks had been filed off. Whoever left this didn’t want it to be traced back to them. And now his fingermarks were on it, but they could easily be wiped clean. The chamber was empty. Closer inspection of the box revealed a sheet of paper wrapped around a bullet cartridge. It was a note. He read it, then reread it. It didn’t make any sense. Who would do this to him? Why would anyone send him such a thing? Why would they choose him to carry out this dastardly scheme?

As he was thinking these thoughts, an image went fleetingly through his mind. It was so rapid it was almost subliminal and was more of a sensation than an actual picture. For the briefest of seconds, he saw himself, or rather, sensed himself holding a gun, aiming it at… what? Then it was gone. He shook his head to clear his brain. He had to think straight, calmly. Only he had the skills necessary to carry out this task, the letter said. What did that mean? He wasn’t a criminal; he was, or had been, a civil servant working for the U.S.P.S. until his breakdown. He had never even held a gun in his life, never mind used one. He wouldn’t know how to… and then more pictures entered his imagination. It was more like a series of still photographs, each displaying an almost identical image to the previous, moving on one frame at a time. When riffled quickly together, it gave the illusion of a moving tableau. It was him again, still holding the gun, but now he was firing it. In the shortest of moments, he sensed he had been in danger, using the weapon to defend himself. But from who, or what? And why? How was this even possible?

A disquieting thought ran through his mind. Maybe Ricky had taken ill suddenly and been rushed to hospital, but then the school would have been bound to call him, wouldn’t they? Of course, they would. He returned to the letter. They had a job for him to do, it read, which only he was suitably equipped to handle. They had supplied the gun; they had furnished the bullet. With his unique skill set, it said, one bullet would be enough. It would have to be if he wanted to see his little boy again. This much was made clear. As was usual in these situations, he was warned not to contact the authorities. They were watching him and would know if he attempted to deviate from their demands. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, the better to concentrate. What was going on here? Who were these people? More important, who did they think he was? How long had they been watching him, spying on him? And how did they get his son? What if he hadn’t been late? How would they have been able to abduct him then? Had someone gone into the school, pretending to be from him or Junie? Or even pretending to be Cliff, himself? Those two teachers admitted to him they had not been at the school for long. What if this impostor had faked Cliff’s ID, and claimed not just have come from him, but to be him? Did they lie to the little boy’s teacher that a family emergency had arisen, that he needed to be taken out from his class now? Would any teacher be so reckless, so negligent as to allow any of her charges to be led away by a stranger without some evidence of their authenticity?

It was hardly credible, especially after the terrible events of last year. Last year. Why did that suddenly seem so important, so relevant? Things were beginning to come back to him, events, places, but they were all still too vague to distill into a coherent whole. No, never mind all that. All that mattered was getting Ricky back. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew. His son, Ricky, was connected to those incidents. And so was he. He smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead several times in anger and frustration. Why couldn’t he remember, why was everything so cloudy? Then, slowly, the fog, the mist, began to clear. It was all coming back to him. Ricky, his darling little son, was one of those poor children who had been taken. This had been the start of the downward spiral of his marriage. Junie not able to cope with their loss and railing at him for not being with her when she needed him the most. He should have been there to comfort her, not involved with his latest mission. Surely the Company must have other agents they could have called upon. Why was it always him? Why did it always seem to be her husband who was putting his life on the line for his country?

His fictitious job as a postal official, investigating mail fraud, was the ideal cover for him to be away from home for long periods. Only he wasn’t investigating postal irregularities. He was penetrating, infiltrating the most dangerous criminal gangs, sometimes home-grown terrorist groups. As he was when his own son went missing; when Junie couldn’t take it anymore. It was bad enough fretting about her husband, wondering what dangers he was facing, how he was managing to bond with those scum, the lowest of the low. Now it wasn’t only her husband’s life which was in peril; it was also her son’s, their son’s.

It all came to a head when they found Ricky floating in a nearby river. His little body had been so badly mutilated that they had to identify him by his D.N.A. and his dental records. At a time when both parents should have been united in the grief of a lost child, a murdered child, she was left to mourn alone. The coroner’s verdict was that she had died from an overdose of barbiturates at a time when she was suffering from a depressive anxiety condition exacerbated due the murder of her son. At a time when she needed her husband the most. When he wasn’t by her side. The Company gave him compassionate leave, as much as he needed. Even when he felt fit and well enough to return, he would need to be re-evaluated. Physically, mentally, emotionally, and psychologically. But that would never happen. Not now. Now he knew who the bullet was for, and who had left it at his front door. He would do as the letter said. It was the only way he would see Ricky again.

The End

Conrad

Conrad wasn't precisely what you would call work-shy. The thirty-five-year-old didn't mind hard work one little bit, just as long as it was somebody else who was doing it. He often said that he could stand, or preferably sit for hours, watching other folks work their asses off. Since he lost his position as an assistant storeman at a local engineering company six months earlier, he had, it was true, made some desultory attempts to find employment. However, he spent most of his efforts writing for jobs that he knew were above his capabilities or experience. He only applied to those companies to keep his long-suffering parents from hounding him to get work, any work. As a long-serving, albeit reluctant employee of Gillan's, his former employer, the company, by rights, should have sacked newer staff members on a 'last in, first out' basis. However, his bosses took advantage of the downturn to fire the 'deadwood,' and they didn't come much more lazy, incompetent, unprofessional, disinterested, indifferent, and sloppy than him. He was so lethargic he wouldn't even have taken the trouble to breathe if he didn't have to.

He was by far not the only thirty-something to still be living at home, but he had never made the slightest effort to find a place of his own. As far as his parents knew, he had never had a girlfriend; in fact, they were sure he had never even been out on a date. It was undoubtedly true that he was no ideal catch. He measured five feet and a few inches in height and was morbidly obese, with his stomach starting halfway up his chest and ending, well, somewhere south of his you-know-where. He wore eyeglasses whose lenses had never seen a lens cleaner, never mind a dab with a piece of damp kitchen paper. Whether he could even see out of them was a matter of some contention to all who knew him. His dark hair was thinning fast and was as unkempt as it was unwashed, which brings us on to his personal hygiene, or lack thereof. His former co-workers often said, and not always in jest, that you could smell Conrad long before you saw him. His personality was another factor that played against him, mainly because he didn't have one, so in a nutshell, he was not an ideal candidate for 'The Bachelor of the Year' award.

His mother had begged him to at least try to find an apartment. She even offered to pay for the removal costs and the first six months' rent, but Conrad knew when he was on to a good thing and was in no hurry to move out. For some reason, known only to themselves, his folks never pushed him harder than they did, let alone change the locks when he went out. So there Conrad was, a moribund slacker of a son, fast approaching middle-age, getting bulkier and more sallow, unshaven and hollow-eyed by the week, spending his time in his room playing computer games. He was becoming more hermit-like as time went on and eventually stopped going out at all. His only foray into the outside world was on Thursday mornings when he went to the welfare office to collect his unemployment check. It was true that he handed over most of his benefit, but even this fell well short of what he ate and drank, and his parents were always out of pocket on him. This was another reason why everyone was so surprised that they didn't kick him out. But he was, when all was said and done, their son, and you couldn't just evict your son, your only child, into the street, well, could you? But things were about to change for Conrad, oh yes indeedy, and life would never be quite the same again…

He had got to the stage in his relationship with his parents that he only saw them at mealtimes, and he had become almost a stranger to them. His mother insisted that he took his meals with them and not scurry off to his room like some feral animal. God alone knew what creatures any accidentally dropped food morsels might attract? His bedroom was rank enough as it was, and his mother had point-blank refused to tidy it or even go near it. The enmity between parents and son increased to the point where they would go out most evenings, not through choice, but to get away from him. It mattered not where they went, as long as they did not have to be under the same roof as their only offspring.

Conrad took the opportunity when they were out to sneak into the lounge and watch some T.V., always ensuring that he used air freshener before he returned to his quarters. It did not occur to him that it might have been more agreeable just to bathe and wear a change of clothes, so low had he sunk into his mental atrophy. He was idly channel surfing one such evening when he came across a program he had not seen before. Out of no more than idle curiosity, he decided to watch for a few minutes. One of the characters might be a luscious piece of skirt he could later fantasize over in bed. In one scene, taking place in a bar, his eyes were gradually drawn to a character in the background, a minor player, probably an extra, with his back to the camera. He seemed to be by himself and was nursing a pint of beer. The man somehow seemed familiar, but Conrad could not place where he had seen him before. No matter. It wasn't important. Conrad watched the drama for a few more minutes, but no gorgeous bunnies seemed to frequent this place, so he opted instead for a sci-fi movie, which was starting on another channel. He checked the time and calculated that he might have time to watch it to the end before they came back. And this offering showed more promise than that poxy soap opera. Some young women in very short blue one-piece dress tunics were running from a CGI space monster. If he peered closely enough, he might just get a glimpse of, oh, joy of joys, oh, yes, they were climbing a ladder in the spacecraft. A camera was strategically perched beneath them, offering a tantalizing view of their lovely long legs and matching blue panties. He didn't know if he could wait for later to express his carnal desire for them, as he felt his needs rise beneath his pants. However, he disciplined himself not to unveil his enlarged manhood just in case his parents returned earlier than expected. This, undoubtedly, would be the last straw. Even they would surely not allow him to remain in their home if they caught him playing with himself on the couch in their front room, even with the curtains drawn.

Three nights later, he once more took advantage of their absence to watch the television again, and coincidentally, the same T.V. drama was playing. The extra was still there, but his profile was turned slightly to the left, exposing just a small glance of his features, but not enough to make out his identity. Once again, Conrad had the feeling that he knew this character, but being unable to see the rest of his face, he could only watch and wait. Maybe the camera would pan around and show more of his features. Come on, you stupid bastard, he thought. Where do I know you from? He decided it was probably from some other television show and put the question out of his mind. Regrettably, there were no mild-porn sci-fi movies on that night, and Conrad channel-flicked until he came across a travel program. This show was extolling the pleasures and delights of some tropical hideaway, which he would never get to, not in a million years. There were, however, some benefits to be gained by watching as the camera swept slowly round the golden beach. It eventually focused on some scantily clad girls diving into the warm, rippling, azure-blue waters, and, once again, his hand went automatically to his groin. He was only vaguely aware of his actions as he watched the popsies frolic in the shallow, sun-kissed shoreline, their bathing briefs barely covering their gorgeously tanned behinds.

He had just started climbing the stairs to his room when he heard the key turning in the front door and ran, hurrying up the last few steps. Below him, he could hear them tidying around before turning in. Lying on his cluttered and unmade bed, he could hear them speaking. However, most of what they said was an unintelligible muffle, except for his name, which they mentioned several times. It seemed as though they were arguing over him, although he had no idea why this should be. As far as he knew, both parents held him in equal contempt and loathing, and the feeling was fast becoming mutual.

The following morning, as a break from the usual routine, Max and Freda Butler, Conrad’s folks, summoned him into their parlor. This event was unusual in itself. They only kept the parlor for special occasions, the last one being the wake for Max’s brother, Stanley, who passed over the previous year .Before they even started speaking, he knew the discussion wasn’t going to be genial. There was a somber mood about their appearance, and Conrad expected the worst. And he was right. Long after he had fallen asleep, his parents had continued their discourse about their antisocial offspring. They had come to a decision. Conrad would have to move out. It was time. There would be no discussion, no disagreement, no tantrums. He would find a place of his own, end-of-story. Or rather, they would find a place for him. In his present state, he would have found it hard to get lodgings by himself inside the city zoo. No self-respecting landlord or landlady would want someone as disheveled, dirty, and smelly within their premises, no matter what financial incentives they might have been offered. His parents would subsidize his rent; hell, they would pay it all until he could find his feet. They would pay his removal costs, the rent deposit, and security bond. Whatever it took, but O-U-T he was going. They were so determined in their united stand that he realized it would be pointless to argue. As a final incentive, they would even give him their precious T.V.

They would allow him six weeks, eight weeks at a push, to agree to a place his parents would arrange for him. Then he would be out on the street. There was no doubt in Conrad’s mind that they were serious. He had never seen them so focused on him, but what made it all the more plausible was that they had called him into the parlor. And they would even throw in their T.V., eh? Well, it might not be so bad having a place of his own, after all. He could come and go as he pleased, although, in truth, he more or less did that already. But constantly having them harping on about getting a job, having a bath, wiping his glasses, yes, the more he thought about it, the more attractive the proposition became.

It was Max who found the apartment, a second-floor, one-bedroom dwelling with a self-contained kitchen. It was a brownstone building across town. It would be too far to walk, so hopefully, he would take the hint. And Conrad better behave himself. If his landlady ever had cause to evict him, there would be no room for him back at his parents’ home. The odd, very odd visit, yes, but other than that, he was on his own. *****

Sometime later, Conrad had settled down for the evening in his new apartment, and as was his custom, switched on the T.V. It was his now, without having to keep one eye on the clock to ensure his folks didn’t catch him watching it. The same pub-set soap opera was on with the same bit player in the background, only now, he had turned around some more, tantalizingly just out of recognition. But then, he swiveled to face right into the camera; only, he was not looking at the lens. His attention was on Conrad; at least, that was his impression. And then it dawned on him. He knew where he had seen this character before – it was him. Or, it was Conrad as he might have been in a different life. A cleaner, sharper, more confident-looking, more intelligent version of himself. The rest of the pub scene had now dissolved, and only the Conrad doppelganger was on the screen. And it, he, was talking to the original Conrad, the one now sitting with his eyes glued to the screen in front of him. Only not with words. Conrad could hear it, hear himself as his own voice echoed tinnily inside his head. The voice, his voice, sounded impatient, saying that it was about time. They thought he would never get here. There was work to be done, important work, and Conrad had to pay attention. Time was short, and there was much to be done. Was he imagining all this? Yes, that was it. It had to be. It… but the voice inside Conrad’s head interrupted his thoughts again. No, this was not his imagination, and Conrad had better come to his senses.

But who were they, what were they, what was about time, and more troubling – what work was to be done, and the most important question of all, why him? At the mention of the word ‘work,’ Conrad shrunk into himself. Work was a four-letter word, alien to his vocabulary. Not something he cared to think about, much less dwell upon. But something unusual was happening, something strange, something unknown. A sense of inner peace and serenity was settling within him, and a quiet, tranquil resilience was entering into his psyche. No longer did the word terrify him. Now he greeted it warmly, almost enthusiastically, and he knew that whatever the hazards and challenges that lay ahead, he would meet them head-on. With courage and with vigor. All his questions did have answers, the voice said. Answers that would be given in due course, in the fullness of time. For the time being, all Conrad needed to know was that the world was in great peril, and only he, only Conrad, could prevent its destruction. Well, thought Conrad resignedly, I suppose it’ll be more interesting than playing with myself in front of the television…

The End

Table Stakes Only

In our mind’s eye, we are behind a movie camera lens, the kind they use in Hollywood blockbusters. We are in a room with a mix of cigar and cigarette smoke, forming a stationary fuggy pall above a round, green baize card table and some chairs. These are the only items of furniture in the room. The ceiling light is off, and the outer fringes of the place are in semi-darkness. The only illumination emanates from small lamps with green shades positioned in front of each individual, angled so their light spills onto the center of the table. Sitting around this table are seven people – a poker school. They are the only people in the room. We will meet each of the players as the game progresses. The game is five-card draw, with a maximum of three discards per hand. The gamblers have no names and are only addressed as player one, player two, et cetera. Rules have been established beforehand. It is a winner-take-all game, with only those chips on the table being accepted. There will be no credit, no i.o.u.’s, no markers, no car keys, debenture papers, mortgage documents, or house keys will be allowed. This game is table stakes only, and no personal items may be substituted if any of the players run out of chips. If this eventuality happens, the player must leave the table and exit the room. Steps have been taken to ensure these conditions are complied with.

The players have been seated for a few hours, and the game is well advanced. We join them at the start of a new round, and all the gamblers are still in play. As our cameraman pans around the room, his lens alights on the first player. It is a young man, twenty-five, perhaps, cocksure, verging on arrogant. He is clean-shaven with a full head of slicked-back jet-black hair, an expression of contempt on his face. He is not a particularly nice young man, but he did not come here to make friends. He is dressed in a sharp gray lightweight three-piece suit, with the jacket draped over the back of his chair. From his waistcoat, a fob watch dangles pretentiously. A Turkish cigarette hangs precariously from the side of his mouth, its smoke slowly curling upwards to mingle with the existing haze above. He has already won a few hands and lost some; the chips in front of him are almost the same with which he started. So far, he has neither gained nor lost very much. He glances slowly around the room, trying to discern who has and has not got a good first draw. He has a pair of eights - spades and diamonds, and three odd cards. Does he want to give his hand away? No, he doesn’t. He pushes his stake into the center of the table, keeping the highest of the discards, a jack, also spades, and throws in the other two. He is dealt the replacement cards—another eight - hearts, plus another odd card, the queen of clubs. Shame; one rank lower, and he would have had a full-house. Still, not a bad hand, nonetheless.

Our cameraman moves as the play turns to the next person, player two, a man in his mid-forties, slightly overweight, uncomfortable at having been sitting in the same position for so long. He has brown hair, which is receding at the front and sides. At the rate he is losing his locks, he will likely be completely bald within the next two years. He does not go in much for sartorial elegance and wears an old cowboy-style brown leather jacket with fringes and tassels on the shoulders. He sports a well-worn pair of brown boots which appear to co-ordinate with his jacket. A mole is on the left side of his chin, which he must make an effort not to touch, for fear it will be considered a ‘tell’ by the other players. He looks at his cards; the best he can do is an ace – the ace of hearts. The other four cards are small and different from each other, both in value and suit. There is no point in retaining any of them, but he can only discard three. He briefly considers whether he should continue playing but decides to do so. He keeps the ace, places his ante, and throws in the three smallest cards. The replacement cards are two aces, spades and clubs, and another small ranking one. Three aces. Not bad. He is now more optimistic and glad he decided to play.

We now move on to the third player. It is a woman of indeterminate age. If we are kind, we will estimate her to be in her late thirties. If we are not inclined to be so charitable, we might take her to be in her early fifties. She is certainly attractive whatever age she is, with long blond hair flowing halfway down her back, unfettered by any ties, ribbons, or clasps. She wears eyeglasses with thin black frames, which, if anything, accentuate her femininity. She wears little make-up, except for a thin layer of matte-red lipstick. She is wearing a two-piece designer outfit, a red bolero jacket, and a matching knee-length skirt. She is not adorned with any jewelry, not even a ring. It is she who has been smoking the cigars, thin panatellas, which has helped to augment the pall of tobacco smoke that pervades the room. Player one has been casting lascivious eyes at her all evening, but she has deliberately ignored his gaze. She collects her cards. Two fives – hearts and diamonds, two nines – clubs and diamonds, and a three of diamonds. She discards her fifth card, also hoping for a full house. No luck; she draws the seven of clubs. Still, she has made two pairs, although they are of low rank.

Our cameraman has now reached the chair of player four. He has a bemused, almost childlike expression as if he is a youngster who has somehow suddenly found himself in the company of grown-ups. He has the appearance of someone in his late thirties, but his youthful countenance belies the fact that he is, in fact, nearer fifty than forty. He is dressed in a smart casual manner, with a blue V-neck pullover, under which is a self-colored pink shirt. His hands and fingernails are well-manicured. This attention to his grooming habits is reflected in his ‘Van Dyke’ beard, which has been fastidiously trimmed so that every single hair is cut to within half a millimeter of its fellow bristle. He smiles as he lifts his cards. This habit is a natural affectation, which he cannot help, and not a reaction to the contents of his hand. However, on this occasion, he has good cause to smile. He has been dealt a straight run – six of spades, seven of diamonds, eight of clubs, nine of hearts, and ten of hearts. He calmly throws his stake into the center, covering his cards to indicate he will stay pat. Are the fates with him? He will soon find out.

As we move around the table, we descend on player five. Player five is an older woman who is in her mid-seventies. She is still attractive and would have been considered beautiful in her prime. Despite her age, she has bright, intelligent aquamarine eyes that constantly rove around the room, seeking out expressions of strength or weakness in her opponents’ faces. She has allowed her hair to grey gracefully and does not try to hide her age. She is wearing an emerald green short-sleeve dress to match her striking green eyes, with a string of pearls around her neck, which rest casually just above her bosom. Her arms are covered in a gossamer-like matching green pashmina shawl. She considers her hand. Possible flush. Three, six, nine, jack of diamonds. One odd card – a small one of no consequence. She, too, might have stayed pat, but two pat hands in one round? No, it probably wouldn’t work. She places her stake carefully as she throws in her discard. She lifts her new draw. It is the two of diamonds. She has done it. She has made the flush and now congratulates herself inwardly that she did not stand on her dealt hand. She is ready.

We leave player five and move slightly around the table to player six. He is very small, not even five feet tall, and needs a booster cushion on his seat so he can reach the table. He has long since stopped being embarrassed or ashamed about his lack of stature. He has eventually come to realize that it is not his problem. The problem is with those who take issue with it. He no longer suffers from ‘small man syndrome.’ He is comfortable about who he is and what he is. He thinks he looks like Danny DeVito, and DeVito’s height has never affected his ability as an actor. He is wearing a tartan waistcoat. He always tries to have something Scottish with him, to remind him of his Hibernian roots. He lifts his cards and places them close to his chest, like someone out of an old-time western movie. He squints down to see what he has been dealt. A pair of queens – hearts and diamonds. He also has a king of diamonds and two no-consequence cards. He keeps the king and discards the other ones. He draws another two odd cards. He has not improved. It's not a great hand, but pots have been won with less. And the stakes are high – too high to back out, just because of a lousy pair of queens. No, hold your nerve, be optimistic and carry on. Throw in your ante and hope for the best.

So, we leave our Danny De Vito lookalike as we and our cameraman head a few feet around the table to player seven. We can best describe player seven as a nonentity. Average height, average age, average build, average personality, average voice, average everything. You would not notice him if he were the only person in an otherwise empty room. An ideal field service operative (that’s ‘spy’ to you). Completely anonymous. You would not be able to describe him after being in his company for an hour. A complete nondescript. He is wearing a dark jacket and pants, a white shirt, and a blank expression. He looks down at the green baize table as he takes his cards. A possible straight flush. Three, four, five, six of clubs. An ‘either end’ straight. All he needs is the two or the seven of clubs. He tosses his odd card into the pile of discards and lifts his drawcard. Damn, it’s the four of hearts. A pair of fours. There’s got to be at least a higher pair on the table. He’s going to have to bluff. The best way to bluff is to believe, to really believe, you got the card you wanted. You’re not bluffing at all. You got the hand. That’s how you play the bluff - as if you actually made it. As confidently as he knows how, he places his bet on the table. Everyone is in. This is going to make for an interesting game.

Player one checks. Three eights isn’t a bad hand, but it’s not a great one, either. Let’s see what the rest do, he thinks. Player two throws in one hundred in chips. Three aces. This move should put at least one or two off. Player three throws in one hundred plus another fifty. So it’s now one hundred and fifty to stay in the game. Player four throws in one hundred and fifty, then another one hundred and fifty. Is he playing to his hand's strength, or is he trying to scare the other players off? Player five sees player four’s three hundred and doubles down. Six hundred. It’s now six hundred to stay in the game. Player six has a pair of queens. He must not even think about it. Either he goes off now, or he quickly comes back in. To only see the previous wager will be seen as weakness. He must double down again. Twelve hundred. In for a penny, as they say. Before player six has even finished his bet, player seven throws in two thousand worth of chips.

The bet is back with player one. He has been considering his options as the play has moved around the table. He checked the first time in. Now he has to step up or step out. What will it be? Two thousand on a prial of eights. Is it worth it? Probably not, but his misplaced sense of self-assurance tells him otherwise. Almost dismissively, he throws his chips into the center. He is going to win this hand, no matter what. Player two looks curiously to player one. He checked the first time, then only saw on the second round. Is he holding back, feigning a so-so hand to lull the other players in, then going in for the kill? He crooks his index finger over his mouth in thought. Is it worth going on for three aces? Why not? He pushes another two thousand in chips onto the rest of the pile. Player three does not even think twice. It’s only two small pairs, but she thinks at least two other players are bluffing. She counts out two thousand in chips, then another thousand, discretely sliding them onto the ante. Player four slyly looks at his hand again as if he cannot believe what he holds. He hopes his fellow players have not noticed his furtive glance, but he is wrong. He has given his hand away, not exactly the cards he holds, but the fact that he has a hand worth betting on. Someone with a poor hand would not look at their cards in such a way. They know they have a weak hand. They do not need to remind themselves of this fact. He sees the three thousand and raises by another two thousand. Let’s see what the others do, he thinks. Five thousand to stay in the game. Who thinks their hand is worth it? Player five does. She resists the urge to caress her pearl necklace, a sure tell. She throws in the five thousand and immediately doubles her bet. Her expression remains impassive, giving nothing away. Player six, our Danny DeVito lookalike pauses. It is only a heartbeat’s hesitation, but it is enough. He has blown his hand and he knows it. Ten thousand is a lot to bet on a pair of queens. He knows he has a weak hand, and is unlikely to bluff out the other six players. He throws his cards in, face down, and leaves the table. Player seven has been watching player six’s discomfort. He, too, has a weak hand, and would give a lot to know the cards that his fellow player threw in. But he is far more astute. He may have a bland and unnoticeable exterior, but his mind is sharp. The other gamblers will not be expecting two folds in a row, and he comes back immediately. Ten thousand plus ten thousand. All on a pair of fours. Well, it’s only chips, after all.

Player one’s cigarette has gone out, but it is still dangling from between his lips. This is getting serious now. Three eights. Hardly the stuff of legend. It’s make-or-break time. Go hard or go home. He goes hard. It is his nature. He doubles again. Forty thousand to stay in the game. Will player two see him, or even raise? Maybe he’ll go off. Maybe…Player two has seen his fellow player bet. He has done nothing to give his hand away, but, somehow, player two senses player one’s hand is not as strong as he would like the table to believe. He has been playing poker for a long time, and has developed a sixth sense. He doesn’t see ghosts, but he sees something else. He’s just not quite sure what it is, but his suspicions are roused enough to make him stay in the game. He sees the forty thousand but doesn’t raise; not yet. Player three has made a decision. She will see the forty thousand and raise the bet by another ten thousand, but that’s it. her two small pairs are not worth any more, she thinks. If it comes around to her again, she’ll throw in the towel. Player four strokes his beard. They can think it’s a tell if they like, but he is thinking. Fifty thousand to stay in the game. Fifty thousand on a run; not even a particularly good one. He has the overarching compulsion to search the faces of his fellow players, but resists the temptation. He cannot bear to think that he might fold on what could be the highest hand on the table. He sees but does not raise. Player five would like to go off, but like player four, would be appalled if she went out, then discovered she had the best hand. She throws in the fifty thousand, and in a moment of bravado, doubles down, furtively glancing to her left. Player seven is sure. He should not have bet on the last round. To go any further would be a cardinal act of folly. He can easily afford the stakes, but he’s not stupid. He throws in his hand, nods to his fellow players and leaves the room.

Player one has lost much of his early swagger. Like player seven, he can afford the stakes, but does he want to gamble any more on three eights? With ill-concealed bad humor, he throws his cards into the table. He means them to land face down, but his wrist action has failed him, and four of the cards land face up. The other players see his three eights. It's unlikely he would have conceded so soon had he made the full house. Without a word, he storms out of the room, returning a few seconds later. In his anger, he has forgotten to lift his suit jacket. The remaining gamblers do not react to his childish behavior as he leaves the room for the second and final time. The actions of player one have made up player two’s mind. He was unsure whether to continue, but although his hand is better than player one’s, it is still only three-of-a-kind. And the bet is one hundred thousand. He, too, surrenders his hand to the table, ensuring he keeps his cards face down. Player three wonders if she can tantalize the remaining male player, player four, to throw his hand in. She angles her body suggestively towards him, crossing and uncrossing her long, slim legs in an overtly sexually provocatively gesture, promising much, but intending nothing. Her act is wasted on him. He is not interested in her in the slightest. She has lost interest in the game, and now believes that between the remaining two players, at least one of them has a superior hand, and is unlikely to be bluffed off. She elegantly lays her cards down on the table before sedately rising from her chair and walking to the door. For player four, it is the moment of truth. Win or lose. He throws in all his remaining chips, some five hundred thousand worth. Will his remaining adversary be persuaded to admit defeat? No, she will not. With a display of confidence she does not feel, she meets his wager. Both players turn over their cards. The highest hand has prevailed.

Player four smiles almost childishly as he shoves all her winnings towards her. Neither speak as he pushes his seat backwards, the legs scraping the linoleumed floor. He nods to her deferentially before leaving her alone in the room. She sits by herself for a few moments, quietly contemplating how much she has won, and what she can do with her winnings. The houses she can build, the land she can cultivate, the crops she can grow, and most of all, how she can make this newfound wealth work for her, how she can invest it so that in years to come, it will multiply exponentially. She has it all worked out in her mind. It will not take her long to organize the logistics, not now she has the means to do so .

As our camera leaves the table, we are taken for a cinematic roller-coaster ride as the lens recedes upwards. At first, slowly, angling down on the remaining player from the ceiling. Then, by CGI magic, the roof disintegrates. We now gain speed as the camera folds back much more rapidly until we are soaring backward into the sky above to look down and see in all its glory the location from where the game took place. We are now gazing down on what resembles a sports stadium, an arena, but an arena so vast it numbs the senses. Its size can only be guessed at, as large as a city, holding untold numbers of people, maybe as many as five million souls. If our backward soaring camera has not flown too high, we might see that the structure is perfectly round, divided into seven equal sections. Each section by itself is far more extensive than the greatest arena ever constructed. The public area is banked upwards from ground level, like a regular sports amphitheater and is filled with varying amounts of people – men and women.

From the height which we are looking down, there is something we may not notice. Something very disturbing. Something which may… well, we’ll see in a moment or two. At the bottom middle of each section is a wide aperture, with two massive wrought iron gates closed together, shuttering the space. In front of the entrances stand six men to each section. Each one holds a metal rod with a battery pack fastened to the top. A button switch is fitted to the outer side of the battery casing. A small conduit comes from the battery, attached down the rod, inside which is an electric cable.

The gates numbered from one to four, and six and seven, are slowly opened, and the people begin to move forward, and down the aisles, heading to the enormous space in the middle of the arena. They will be counted and numbered to correspond with the number of chips player five has won from her fellow gamblers. If our camera is not too far away, we will see that all these people are chained together, an unbelievably long coffle of thousands upon thousands of slaves. A coffle only witnessed in the horrific excesses of our worst nightmares. People of all ages, of every color, of every race, of every creed, of every religion, the tall, the short, the thin, the stout, the fully-haired, the bald, the shaven and the shorn, are all being led away. Expressionless, emotionless, as if they had all just survived some horrifying accident, unsure of where they are or how they got there. Many are dressed in vestments which can still be recognized as clothes; others are in garments which can barely be described even as rags, and some shuffle along with material barely covering their modesty. Those who lag behind or stumble against their chains are prodded by the guards. One jab with the electric rod is all it usually takes to get them moving again.

Eventually, they will all be herded into the section reserved for player five, to combine with the other poor souls who are already there. The old lady has come to inspect her winnings. They are all hers. She will separate the young males and females and house them together. Eventually they will die with exhaustion from their labors, but not before they surely breed, growing her fortune even more. She will give them some of what she calls ‘negative incentive’ to procreate. If they do not produce the required number of offspring, they will be fed to her bovine or porcine cattle alive or dead. It will make no difference to her. She might even make more revenue by allowing other human livestock plutocrats to watch them mate. It never ceases to amaze her how sexually creative her human flock can be, even in the midst of their degradation and suffering. Some of their progeny she will keep, some she will dispose of, especially if they are weak, or ill. Others still, the newborn and the older flock, she will harvest for their organs. She will get a higher price if these organs are removed while the subjects are still alive. Their hollow, empty carcasses will be ground up and fed to her remaining human livestock, or used to fertilize her crops. To her, they are merely commodities to be bought, sold, gambled, and used as she sees fit. She enjoys her game of poker. Playing for human beings is so much more… satisfying than playing for money.

The End

About the Author

David Philips was born in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1953, and emigrated to Perth, West Australia in 2009 with his wife Adele. He has two adult children who still live in Glasgow.

He has had several careers, including being the anonymous half of comedy double-act with a mischievous, irreverent, keyboard-playing robot called ‘Mr. Hairy’, and it was always a matter of some chagrin that the robot continually stole all his best lines and got more laughs than he did.

In his spare time, David plays folk harmonica, swears at the T.V., and reads (usually while swearing at the T.V.) His favorite authors are Scottish crime fiction writers, Ian Rankin and Craig Robertson. He is also a fan of the thriller novels of the late Robert Ludlum.

As well as writing short horror fiction, David also authors full-length conspiracy novels. He has penned four such novels to date, the first of which, ‘The Judas Conspiracy’, a novel about the JFK assassination, will be published by Black Rose Writing in September 2022.

For further information, and to keep up-to-date on David’s future publications, please visit his website, www.davidphilipsauthor.com or contact him on dave@davidphilipsauthor.com